"  //  '//vvr.'v  /'  //<,'•////>/ (,r<  s  ///<" 
Or  a  spice  of  danger  in  if 
Said  AV//J-- 


The  Fighting  Race 

AND 
Other  Poems  and  Ballads 


By 
JOSEPH  I.  G.  CLARKE 

Author  of  "  Robert  Emmet,  a  Tragedy."  "  Malmorda,' 
"  Lady  Godiva,"  Etc. 


CIRCULATED  BY 

THE  AMERICAN  NEWS  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 

1911 


Copyright,  1911 
By  JOSEPH  I.  C.  CLARKE 


STEWART  PRINTING  Co.. 

NEW    YORK. 


//  one  of  tender  heart, 

In  turning  o'er  these  leaflets  of  long  years, — • 

Some  born  in  laughter,  some  all  blurred  with  tears, 

And  wrought  in  climes  and  places  far  apart, — 

Shall  haply  find  one  haunting  line 

Touched  e'er  so  little  with  the  light  divine, 

Or  thrilling  with  a  joy  intense, 

Therein  I'll  find  my  recompense. 

If  aught  herein  has  cheered  a  single  soul, 

Or  fired  one  breast  to  noble  deeds, 

Or  helped  mankind  an  inch  toward  reason's  goal, 

Or  in  a  sterile  bosom  sown  love's  seeds, 

Or  placed  man's  angel  at  his  right  on  guard, — 

Therein  I'll  find  reward. 

And  so,  to  all  I  love, 

My  harp,  my  song  I  dedicate — 

The  near  ones  who  my  trust  and  crust  have  shared, 

The  brave  with  whom  I've  marched  and  fared, 

The  land  the  star-Hag  waves  above 

That  gave  me  welcome  at  her  wide  sea-gate, 

And  Ireland,  mother-land  forever  dear — 

Yea,  dearer  for  the  darkness  of  her  fate. 


241277 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

SONGS  OF  THE  CELT : 

The    Fighting    Race 13 

The  Heralds   of  the   Gael 16 

Rough  Rider  "Bucky"  O'Neill 17 

Pictures    of    Ireland 19 

The  Kinship  of  the  Celt 22 

The   Armory 24 

The  Ballad  of  the  Sixty-Ninth 26 

An  Irish  Easter  Legend 29 

The  Hail  of  the  Friendly  Sons 31 

Fore-song    of   Malmorda 33 

The    Exile 36 

The  Singer— To  M.  N 39 

The    Poet 40 

The  Lecture  on   Spion  Kop 43 

The  Fret  of  Father  Carty 46 

When  Sheridan  Hurled  the  Discus 49 

Bill    Manning 54 

SONGS  OF  AMERICA: 

At   Liberty's   Feet 59 

George   Washington 61 

The   Battle   Flag 63 

Nathan  Hale's   Statue 64 

The  Funeral  of  Grant 66 

Tecumseh's    Reveille 67 

Salve 70 

Mother    America 71 

The  March  of  the  Millions 73 

Absit   Omen 74 

The  Song  of  Old  Glory ..,....,,  76 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

POEMS: 

The  Soul  of  Nippon 81 

The  Messenger  from  Marathon 88 

The    Banishment « 92 

The  Love  of  Donald  Nair 96 

You  of  the  Morning  Hour 98 

The  People  of  Shadow  Street 100 

An  Easter  Bride 102 

The  Vision  of  Ertogruhl 103 

In  the  Darkened  World 105 

Clythia's  Lament  to  Apollo 108 

Tannhauser Ill 

GLINTS  OF  LIFE: 

A  Study  in  the  Flesh 115 

The   Second  Marriage 116 

The    Portrait 117 

The  Loving  Cup 118 

The  Chalice  of  Tears 120 

A  New  Prometheus 121 

The  Way  of  the  Cross 122 

The  Maker  of  My  Lady's  Lace 123 

On    the    Sound 124 

Lost 125 

The  Golden  Test 126 

A  Woman's  Mystery 127 

Inscriptions : 

Pro   Libra    Mea 128 

On  a  Lamp  at  Rio  Vista 128 

Little   Things 129 

To    Constance 129 

Law 130 

Criticism 131 

Cumpleaiios 132 

Dreams 132 

Carpe    Diem .  134 


CONTENTS  xi 

PAGE 

LYRICS : 

Princess  of  the  Morning 137 

In  the  Violet  Dawn 138 

Thistledown 139 

Aura 140 

Good  Night 141 

Whatever  the  Heart's  Desire 142 

The  Joyance  of  Spring 144 

Mine 145 

Awakening 146 

Wild   Roses 147 

The  Ride  of  Malmorda 148 

Christmas  of  Long  Ago 149 

Heartease 150 

A   Sunset   Song 151 

Before  Me  152 

Unsleeping 153 

A  Love  Prayer 154 

The  Sword  of  Love's  Command 154 

Forget-Me-Not 156 

The  Call  of  Elfled,  the  King's  Daughter 157 

Geraldine 158 

Pain  and  Love 159 

Better  Than   Forgetting 160 

Lux   in  Tenebris 160 

A  Rosebud  at  the  Play 161 

Glad  Be  Our  Goodby 162 

When  Beauty  Passes     163 

The  Seas  of  Noon 164 

BALLADS  OF  BATTLE : 

The  Sinking  of  the  "Albemarle" 169 

The  Virginia   Cadets 177 

Custer's  Last  Charge 183 


xii  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MANHATTAN:  AN  ODE: 

For    the    Hudson-Fulton    Centennial — September, 
1909 191 

LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT: 

Pentaeteria 203 

A  Decade  of  Love 204 

Myriadeos 205 


Grateful  acknowledgment  of  per 
mission  to  print  herein  is  made  to 
the  Atlantic  Monthly,  the  Century 
Magazine,  the  Bookman,  the  Co 
lumbian,  the  Smart  Set,  the  Critic, 
the  Criterion,  the  New  York  Sun 
and  New  York  Times,  to  Harper 
and  Bros,  and  the  estate  of  General 
Lew  Wallace,  author  of  the  novel 
'The  Prince  of  India." 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 


THE  FIGHTING  RACE. 

"Read  out  the  names !"  and  Burke  sat  back, 

And  Kelly  drooped  his  head, 
While  Shea — they  call  him  Scholar  Jack — 

Went  down  the  list  of  the  dead. 
Officers,  seamen,  gunners,  marines, 

The  crews  of  the  gig  and  yawl, 
The  bearded  man  and  the  lad  in  his  teens, 

Carpenters,  coal  passers — all. 
Then,  knocking  the  ashes  from  out  his  pipe, 

Said  Burke  in  an  offhand  way : 
"We're  all  in  that  dead  man's  list,  by  Cripe ! 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 

"Well,  here's  to   the   Maine,   and  I'm  sorry  for 
Spain," 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"Wherever   there's    Kellys   there's   trouble,"    said 
Burke. 

"Wherever  fighting's  the  game, 
Or  a  spice  of  danger  in  grown  man's  work," 

Said  Kelly,  "you'll  find  my  name." 
"And  do  we  fall  short,"  said  Burke,  getting  mad, 

"When  it's  touch  and  go  for  life?" 
Said  Shea,  "It's  thirty-odd  years,  bedad, 

Since  I  charged  to  drum  and  fife 
13 


'Of  THE  CELT. 

Up  Marye's  Heights,  and  my  old  canteen 

Stopped  a  rebel  ball  on  its  way. 
There  were  blossoms  of  blood  on  our  sprigs  of 

green- 
Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea — 
And  the  dead  didn't  brag."     "Well,  here's  to  the 

flag!" 
Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 


"I  wish  'twas  in  Ireland,  for  there's  the  place," 

Said  Burke,  "that  we'd  die  by  right, 
In  the  cradle  of  our  soldier  race, 

After  one  good  stand-up  fight. 
My  grandfather  fell  on  Vinegar  Hill, 

And  fighting  was  not  his  trade ; 
But  his  rusty  pike's  in  the  cabin  still, 

With  Hessian  blood  on  the  blade." 
"Aye,  aye,"  said  Kelly,  "the  pikes  were  great 

When  the  word  was  'clear  the  way !' 
We  were  thick  on  the  roll  in  ninety-eight — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 

"Well,  here's  to  the  pike  and  the  sword  and  the 
like !" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 


And  Shea,  the  scholar,  with  rising  joy, 
Said,  "We  were  at  Ramillies. 

We  left  our  bones  at  Fontenoy 
And  up  in  the  Pyrenees. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  15 

Before  Dunkirk,  on  Landen's  plain, 

Cremona,  Lille  and  Ghent, 
We're  all  over  Austria,  France  and  Spain, 

Wherever  they  pitched  a  tent. 
We've  died  for  England  from  Waterloo 

To  Egypt  and  Dargai ; 
And  still  there's  enough  for  a  corps  or  a  crew, 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here  is  to  good  honest  fighting  blood!" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

"Oh,  the  fighting  races  don't  die  out, 

If  they  seldom  die  in  bed, 
For  love  is  first  in  their  hearts,  no  doubt," 

Said  Burke;  then  Kelly  said: 
"When  Michael,  the  Irish  Archangel,  stands, 

The  angel  with  the  sword, 
And  the  battle-dead  from  a  hundred  lands 

Are  ranged  in  one  big  horde, 
Our  line,  that  for  Gabriel's  trumpet  waits, 

Will  stretch  three  deep  that  day, 
From  Jehoshaphat  to  the  Golden  Gates — 

Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea." 
"Well,  here's  thank  God  for  the  race  and  the  sod!" 

Said  Kelly  and  Burke  and  Shea. 

March  16,  1898. 


16  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 


THE  HERALDS  OF  THE  GAEL. 

The  topmost  glory  of  a  race  is  bound 
Within  the  gleaming  virtues  of  its  sons. 

Not  by  its  carven  gold  shall  it  be  crowned, 
Nor  best  saluted  by  its  monster  guns. 

Its  crown  shall  be  to  fashion  day  by  day 

The  stuff  of  greatness  from  its  common  clay. 

Age  upon  age  the  worst  that  man  could  wreak 
On  fellow-man  framed  Ireland's  hapless  plight. 

Freedom  and  learning — yea,  the  right  to  speak — 
Were  trodden  under  in  her  bitter  fight. 

Her  head  was  bowed :  her  breast  and  feet  were  bare, 

But  mind  unconquered  held  her  from  despair. 

And  when  by  random  flashes  gleamed  a  path 
That  led  to  lands  with  freedom's  flag  unfurled, 

She  'rose  amid  the  embers  of  her  wrath 
With  poets,  scholars,  captains  for  the  world, 

And  sent  them  forth  to  shame  the  broadcast  lie 

That  Ireland's  glories  were  to  fade  and  die. 

So  from  her  common  people  rise  revealed 
The  knightly  heralds  of  the  deathless  Gael. 

And  lo,  the  boy  who  led  the  lambs  afield 
Becomes  arch-shepherd  by  the  chancel  rail ; 

The  lad  who  drove  wild  cattle  to  the  fen 

Commands  wide  armies  in  the  wars  of  men. 


SONGS   OF  THE  CELT.  17 

Behold  one,  chosen  of  the  free,  to  stand 

Before  the  marble  altar  of  the  Law, 
And  lift  the  iron  scales  with  steady  hand, 

And  fearlessly  the  sword  of  Justice  draw 
To  cut  the  nets  the  wrangling  sophists  throw, 
And  smite  the  malefactor  high  or  low. 

They  carve  great  statues :  marble  minsters  rear ; 

They  sing  new  songs  to  touch  a  people's  heart ; 
They  lift  our  banner  and  our  message  bear 

Where  senates  meet  to  trace  a  nation's  chart, 
And  best  when  clearest  in  the  soul  and  face. 
,We  see  the  stamp  and  purpose  of  our  race. 


ROUGH  RIDER  "BUCKY"  O'NEILL. 

When  the  cresset  of  war  blazed  over  the  land, 

And  a  call  rang  fierce  thro'  the  West, 
Saying,  "Rough  Riders,  come  to  the  roll  of  the 
drum!" 

They  came  with  their  bravest  and  best. 
With  a  clatter  of  hoofs  and  a  stormy  hail; 

Sinewy,  lean  and  tall  and  brown; 
Hunters  and  fighters  and  men  of  the  trail, 

From  hills  and  plains,  from  college  and  town ; 
With  the  cowboy  yell  and  the  redman's  whoop, 

Sons  of  thunder  and  swingers  of  steel ; 
And,  leading  his  own  Arizona  troop, 

Rode  glad  and  fearless  "Bucky"  O'Neill ! 


18  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

In  the  ranks  there  was  Irish  blood  galore, 

As  it  ever  is  sure  to  be 
When  the  Union  flag  is  flung  to  the  fore, 

And  the  fight  is  to  make  men  free. 
There  were  Kellys,  and  Murphys,  and  Burkes,  and 
Doyles — 

The  colonel  owned  an  O'Brien  strain — 
And  the  lift  of  the  race  made  a  glow  on  each  face 

When  they  met  on  the  Texan  plain. 
But  the  man  of  them  all  with  the  iron  will, 

Man  and  soldier  from  crown  to  heel, 
A  leader  and  master  in  games  that  kill, 

Was  soft  voiced  Captain  "Bucky"  O'Neill! 

On  watch  in  the  valley  or  charging  the  height, 

In  a  plunge  'cross  the  steep  ravine, 
San  Juan  or  Las  Guasimas,  battle  or  fight, 

Or  a  rush  thro'  the  jungle  screen, 
Where  the  wave  of  the  war  took  the  battling  host 

The  Rough  Riders  fronted  the  storm, 
And  their  dead  on  the  rocks  of  red  glory  tossed 

Amid  spray  with  their  life  blood  warm! 
What  wonder,  then,  holding  his  chivalrous  vow 

To  stoop  not,  or  crouch  not  or  kneel, 
That  Death  in  hot  anger  struck  full  on  the  brow 

Of  the  dauntless  "Bucky"  O'Neill? 

O  battle  that  tries  out  the  hearts  of  the  strong, 

To  your  test  he  had  answered  true, 
Who  bent  not  his  head  and  balked  but  at  wrong, 

Nor  murmured  what  billet  he  drew ! 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  19 

In  the  cast  of  the  terrible  dice  of  doom 

It  came  fair  to  his  hand  as  well 
To  mount  the  high  crest  where  the  great  laurels 
bloom 

Or  to  die  at  the  foot  where  he  fell. 
And  of  such  are  the  victors,  and  these  alone 

Shall  be  stamped  with  the  hero  seal, 
And  stirrup  to  stirrup  they'll  ride  to  the  Throne, 

From  the  colonel  to  "Bucky"  O'Neill! 


PICTURES  OF  IRELAND. 

Do  you  ever  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  thorn, 
Or  the  skylark  rising  warbling  in  the  morn, 

With  the  white  mists  o'er  the  meadows, 

Or  the  cattle  in  the  shadows 
Of  the  willows  by  the  borders  of  the  stream? 
Do  you  ever  see  old  Ireland  in  a  dream? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Can  you  see  the  hillsides  touched  with  sunset  gold, 
And  eve  slow  darkling  down  o'er  field  and  fold, 

With  the  aspen-trees  a-quiver, 

And  the  waters  of  the  river 

Running  lonesome-sounding  down  the  dusky  glen? 
Do  you  think  of  Irish  twilights  now  and  then? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Have  you  seen  green  Ireland  lifting  from  the  sea, 
Her  pebbled  strands  that  join  the  grassy  lea? 


20  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

Seen  her  rocky  headlands  rise, 

With  their  shoulders  in  the  skies, 
And  the  mad  waves  breaking  foam-spent  at  their 

feet? 
Do  her  briming  tides  on  shores  of  Memory  beat? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Do  you  ever  think  of  night  time  round  the  fire, 
The  rosy  little  children,  their  mother  and  their  sire : 

The  cross-roads  and  the  fiddle, 

With  the  dancers  in  the  middle, 
While  the  lovers  woo  by  moonlight  in  the  lane  ? 
For  Irish  love  has  e'er  your  heart  been  fain  ? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Have  you  ever  seen  a  weenshee  leprachaun, 
Or  the  fairies  dance  by  starlight  on  the  lawn? 

Have  you  seen  your  fetch  go  by  ? 

Have  you  heard  the  banshee  cry 
In  the  darkness  "ululu!"  and  "ulagone!"? 
Have  you  ever  back  on  fairy  pinions  flown? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Did  you  ever  lift  a  hurl  in  lusty  joy? 

Did  you  ever  toss  the  handball,  man  or  boy  ? 

Light  bonfires  at  John's  eve, 

Or  the  holly  branches  weave, 

When  Christmas  brought  the  robins  and  the  frost? 
Has  Irish  laughter  cheered  hearts  trouble-crossed? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  21 

Did  your  mother  by  your  cradle  ever  croon 
For  lullaby  some  sweet  old  Irish  tune? 

Did  an  Irish  love-song's  art 

Ever  steal  into  your  heart, 
Or  Irish  war-chant  make  your  pulses  thrill  ? 
Do  haunting  harps  yet  sound  from  Tara's  hill  ? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Do  you  ever  hear  the  war-cry  of  the  Gael 
As  O'Donnell  led  his  kernes  against  the  Pale ; 

The  trumpet  of  Red  Hugh, 

Or  the  shout  of  "Crom  Aboo!" 
As  they  rushed  to  die  for  Ireland  long  ago? 
Do   their   sword-blades   from   the  ages   flash  and 
glow? 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 

Tis  not  written  that  the  Irish  race  forget, 
Though  the  tossing  seas  between  them  roll  and 
fret; 

Yea,  the  children  of  the  Gael 

Turn  to  far-off  Innisfail 

And  remember  her,  and  hope  for  her,  and  pray 
That  her  long,  long  night  may  blossom  into  day, 

A  many  a  time,  a  many  a  time. 


22  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 


THE  KINSHIP  OF  THE  CELT. 

[At  the   Rochambeau   Dinner   of  the   Friendly   Sons   of   St.    Patrick, 
New  York,   May,    1902.] 

It's  the  flag  of  France !  the  flag  of  France,  I  see ! 

Life  to  it!    Health  to  it!  fold  on  fold, 
With  the  silken  glint  on  its  colors  three. 

Yet  if  it  was  white  with  lilies  of  gold — 
The  flag  of  a  king — but  the  banner  of  France, 

With  the  flag  of  stars  our  love  'twould  share, 
And,  my  soul,  I'm  for  either  with  sword  or  lance. 

It  is  men  we  love,  not  the  colors  they  wear. 
Let  the  seas  divide;  let  the  green  earth  hide, 

And  the  long  years  come  and  go. 
When  love  has  once  dwelt  in  the  heart  of  the  Celt, 

It  is  there  while  the  waters  now. 


The  love  of  old  Ireland  for  France?    It  has  been 

In  the  first  low  lilt  of  our  cradle  croon ; 
Has  twined  with  our  longing  for  Wearing  the  Green ; 

Has  been  wet  with  the  tears  of  our  Shule  Aroon. 
No  new  love  can  bid  it  to  wither  and  fail ; 

Its  roots  have  sunk  deep  in  the  past,  and  are  strong 
As  the  long,  long  mem'ry  that  marks  out  the  Gael 

For  loving  old  love  and  for  hating  old  wrong. 
Where  the  strong  hands  clasp  in  the  true  man's 
grasp, 

And  the  stout  soul  finds  its  mate, 
Let  the  great  doors  swing  and  the  great  bells  ring 

For  the  love  that  laughs  at  fate. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  23 

To  France  for  a  hundred  sad  years  we  turned 

As  our  only  friend  and  our  hope-lit  star. 
And  never  our  banished  ones'  pray'rs  she  spurned, 

But  mustered  for  Ireland  her  lords  of  war. 
Oh,  the  French  on  the  sea,  and  the  pikes  on  the  plain, 

The  battle-joy  strong  in  the  eyes  and  breast, 
And  if  in  our  Ireland  their  valor  was  vain, 

God  prospered  their  arms  in  the  land  of  the  West. 
Man  strikes  and  prays,  but  God's  dim  ways 

Direct  the  red  bolt  that's  hurled, 
And  the  staggering  blow  of  Rochambeau 

Broke  fetters  all  round  the  world. 

They  flung  wide  their  halls  to  our  priests  and  our 
youth, 

When  our  schools  were  razed  and  our  faith  was 

banned ; 
They  sent  us  the  swords  of  De  Tesse  and  St.  Ruth, 

And  Humbert  and  Hoche  to  strike  for  our  land, 
And  we,  poor  in  all  but  our  lives  and  our  blades, 

Sent  Sarsfield  and  Dillon,  O'Brien,  O'Neill, 
And  the  passionate  stream  of  the  Irish  brigades, 

The  sire  of  MacMahon  went  there  with  his  steel. 
With  the  years  as  they  go  may  its  glory  groiv, 

Fair  France  of  the  generous  hand. 
As  for  freedom  it  stood  with  its  gold  and  its  blood, 

Still  free  and  superb  may  it  stand. 

From  the  loins  of  the  grand  old  Celtic  race, 
Our  fathers  and  theirs  came  stalwart  and  twin. 

Wherever  we've  met  on  the  round  world's  face, 
Our  souls  knew  their  souls  for  clansman  and  kin. 


24  SONGS   OF  THE  CELT. 

And  by  us,  who  on  many  a  blood-red  field 

Poured  out  of  our  best  by  the  best  of  France, 
The  compact  of  kinship  again  shall  be  sealed 

Whenever  for  freedom  her  colors  advance. 
Health,  power  and  grace  to  the  Celtic  race, 

The  Gaul  and  Gael  on  sea  and  shore! 
May  the  green  banner  ride  the  wide  heavens  beside 

The  starry  nag  and  the  tricolor. 


THE  ARMORY. 

'A  home  for  the  brave,  the  warm,  the  true, 
Who  love  the  old  and  who  love  the  new: 
Whose  blood  has  so  oft  divinely  sealed 

Devotion's  uttermost  gift  of  life 
On  the  long  red  ridge  of  the  battlefield, 

In  the  tortuous  aftermath  of  strife, 
Content  in  the  pride  of  the  fearless  soul 
To  lengthen  the  regiment's'  golden  roll. 

Gates,  bastion  and  walls  and  steel-ribbed  dome, 
The  regiment  enters  its  fortress  home. 
The  tramp  of  the  troops,  the  bugle's  bars, 

The  flash  of  the  swords,  the  rifles'  sheen, 
And  streaming  beside  the  flag  of  stars, 

Lo,  Ireland's  banner  of  gold  and  green, 
And  ever  when  these  float  side  by  side 
Shall  the  regiment  follow  or  fast  abide, 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  25 

Its  battle  glories  we  cannot  house ; 
Its  fallen  gallants  no  trump  can  rouse 
To  tell  the  tale  of  the  strife-long  years ; 

The  days  of  scars,  the  coats  in  rags ; 
The  laughs,  the  shouts,  the  cries,  the  cheers. 

Though  we  build  a  home  for  its  tattered  flags, 
And  hear  from  their  far-off  battle  graves 
The  call  of  the  chiefs  to  the  younger  braves. 

But  its  larger  home  is  our  broad  free  land 
With  the  weltering  seas  on  either  hand. 
Wherever  our  flag  flames  out  on  high 

From  the  line  of  snow  to  the  groves  of  palm, 
Wherever  the  eagle  dares  the  sky, 

And  the  morning  song  is  the  freedom  psalm, 
There  sharp  to  Columbia's  trumpet  call 
It  will  march  to  guard,  to  strike  or  fall. 

Then  here  let  the  deathless  Celtic  race, 
In  rank  and  file  take  their  fathers'  place, 
And  prouder  their  spirit  since  longer  here 

They've  drunk  the  strong  air  from  freedom's  hills, 
And  stouter  their  hearts  that  their  blood  runs  clear 

From  the  fount  that  freedom's  bosom  fills. 
And  their  souls  on  stronger  wings  shall  soar, 
And  glory  shall  wait  by  the  open  door. 


26  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

THE  BALLAD  OF  THE  SIXTY-NINTH. 

1861 — 1911. 

Clouds  black  with  thunder  o'er  the  Southern  states ; 

North,  East  and  West  a  sickening  fear  ; 
The  Union  on  the  dark  laps  of  the  Fates, 

And  nowhere  sign  the  skies  would  clear. 
Would  hate  haul  down  the  flag  we  loved  so  well — 

The  star-flag  that  at  Yorktown  flew? 
For  answer  came  the  hurtling  of  a  shell, 

With  the  Union  cleft  in  two ! 

Never  since  out  of  chaos  came  the  world 

Sprang  such  resolve  as  took  us  then : — 
"Thro'  blood  and  fire,  with  that  brave  flag  unfurled, 

The  Union  shall  be  whole  again." 
At  Lincoln's  call  men  swarmed   from  towns  and 
farms ; 

An  ecstacy  shook  all  the  land. 
Tramp !  tramp !  the  people's  bravest  rose  in  arms. 

With  them  the  Irish  took  their  stand. 

For  here  their  slave  rags  had  away  been  cast, 

Freedom  had  met  them  at  the  door, 
To  share  such  empire  lovelit,  rich  and  vast 

As  never  fronted  man  before. 
Our  great  Republic !    Shall  the  kings  behold, 

Neath  slavery's  thrust,  its  overthrow  ? 
Loud,    righteous,    quick    our    regiment's    answer 
rolled : — 

"The  Irish  Sixty-Ninth  says,  No!" 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  2? 

Tramp!  tramp!     At  Corcoran's  command  they've 
swung 

Down  Broadway's  length  a  thousand  strong, 
Their  flag  of  green  by  grand  Old  Glory  flung, 

Their  steps  like  music  to  the  cheering  throng, 
The  great  Archbishop,  blessing  rank  and  file, 

Bends  o'er  them — soldier,  gun  and  blade, 
On  every  face  the  bold-heart  Irish  smile 

That  looks  in  Death's  eyes  unafraid. 


Mother  of  Irish  regiments,  march  in  pride ; 

No  idle  presage  in  your  tread ! 
The  way  is  long;  the  battle  ground  is  wide; 

High  will  be  the  roster  of  your  dead. 
Ever  you'll  find  the  battle's  crest  and  front, 

Then  march  to  seek  new  fighting  ground ; 
Ever,  when  shattered  in  the  battle  brunt, 

Men  for  the  gaps  will  still  be  found. 


You'll  be  baptised  in  fire  at  Blackburn's  Ford, 

Bull  Run  shall  see  two  hundred  fall — 
You  facing  south  when  north  the  rout  has  poured ; 

At  Rappahannock  like  a  wall  ; 
You'll  strike  at  Fair  Oaks ;  clash  at  Gaines's  Mill  ; 
And  ramp  like  tigers  over  Malvern  Hill ; 
Stand  and  be  hammered  at  Chancellorsville ; 
Antietam's  corn  shall  redden  at  your  name, 

The  while  you  deal  the  blow  that  stuns ; 
At  Marye's  Heights  your  men  shall  feed  on  flame 

Up  to  the  muzzles  of  the  guns ; 


28  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

At  Gettysburg  fire-dwindled  on  you'll  press, 
And  then  remanned  again  seek  fight ; 

All  through  the  tangle  of  the  Wilderness, 
You'll  battle  day  and  night ; 

At  Petersburg  you'll  spring  to  the  assault ; 
Only  at  Appomattox  shall  you  halt! 

Let  Nugent,  Meagher,  Cavanagh  be  praised, 

MacMahon,  Kelly,  Haggerty,  Clark, 
But  the  thousands  three  that  the  regiment  raised, 

As  surely  bore  the  hero-mark. 
Fame's  darling  child,  the  Sixty-Ninth  shall  shine  :— 

Never  in  Duty's  hour  to  lag  ; 
Forty-eight  times  in  the  battle  line, 

Never,  never  to  lose  a  flag. 

Tramp !  tramp !  you  saw  the  Union  split  in  twain, 

Tramp !  tramp !    You  saw  the  nation  whole. 
Your  red  blood  flowed  in  torrents  not  in  vain ; 

It  fed  the  great  Republic's  soul. 
Your  drums  still  roll ;  your  serried  ranks  still  form 

From  manhood's  service  no  release. 
Ready  at  call  to  ride  the  battle  storm, 

But  best  the  pledge,  the  guard  of  Peace. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  £9 


AN  IRISH  EASTER  LEGEND. 

"Whoso  kneels  down  upon  Easter  morn 
On  the  Druids'  stone,  and  prays, 

Shall  see  Christ's  face  zvhen  the  day  is  born 
In  the  sun's  first  rising  rays." 

The  Brother  Clement,  a  holy  man, 

Has  watched  through  the  night,  that  he 

May  know  if  the  eyes  of  mortal  can 
The  face  of  the  true  Lord  see. 

His  hands  are  folded  across  his  breast, 
And  his  knees  are  on  the  stone. 

The  chill  breeze  cometh  from  out  the  west 
As  the  monk  prays  there  alone. 

It  chills  him  not,  for  it  bears  a  strain 
As  of  liquid  harp  notes  sweet, 

And  flute  notes  trilled  to  a  glad  refrain 
That  all  living  things  repeat. 

The  air  vibrates  with  the  songs  of  birth, 

A  lark  is  up  on  the  wing. 
There  stirs  beneath  him  within  the  earth 

The  very  soul  of  Spring. 

Glad  voices  come  from  the  rustling  trees. 

The  primrose  and  the  daffodil, 
All  buds  and  flowers  that  catch  the  breeze, 

With  the  song  of  the  Springtime  thrill. 


30  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT 

"The  Lord  has  blessed  me,"  the  Brother  cries, 
"Where  the  Druids  knelt  His  grace 

Has  blessed  mine  ears,  and  will  bless  mine  eyes 
With  a  glimpse  of  His  bright  face." 

The  dawn  is  paling  the  eastern  sky, 
And  the  clouds  are  edged  with  gold. 

He  feels  that  the  mystic  time  is  nigh, 
When  before  him  a  mist  is  rolled. 


It  rises  ghostly  from  wood  and  stream, 
Faint-flecked  as  with  gold  or  fire, 

And  shaped  into  forms  of  eld  that  seem 
The  wraiths  of  the  Druid  choir. 


And  clear  on  his  ear  their  hymn  notes  ring — 

"Lord,  Lord  of  earth  and  air, 
The  Spring  of  the  soul,  the  heart's  glad  Spring, 

Wake  Thou  to  our  Easter  pray'r. 

"When  flower  and  leaf  have  the  gray  earth  blessed, 

And  the  young  grain  grows  apace, 
And  when  the  Spring  stirs  sweet  in  the  breast, 

We  shall  know  we  have  seen  Thy  face." 

The  mists  close  round  him  in  wreathings  curled. 

He  knows  that  the  sun's  bright  rim 
Is  lifting  above  the  wakening  world, 

But  is  rising  unseen  of  him. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  31 

Then  he  bows  his  head  till  from  wood  and  mead 
The  mists,  rose-winged,  have  flown. 

"To  see  Christ's  face  in  His  world,  did  I  need 
To  kneel  on  the  Druids'  stone? 

"O  Druids  of  old,  by  the  mists  long  won, 

Ye  pierced  the  riddle  of  gloom! 
Fair  risen  Lord  and  glad  risen  sun, 

Life,  light,  silver  song  and  bloom!" 

*  *  *  * 

The  monk  passed  silent  but  smiling  down, 

And  knelt  in  the  holy  place, 
The  humble  folk  through  the  minster  town 

Said  "Lo,  he  has  seen  Christ's  face !" 


THE  HAIL  OF  THE  FRIENDLY  SONS. 

Shall  we  who  meet  and  part  to-night 

Remember  not  our  sires  ? 
Shall  we  forget  their  age-long  fight, 

Their  quenchless  battle-fires? 
They  handed  us  the  freedom-flame 

That  spreads  from  sea  to  sea. 
They  bade  it  burn  in  Ireland's  name, 

Till  land  and  race  are  free. 
And  we  feel  the  thrill  of  their  mighty  hail. 

It  comes  with  the  boom  of  guns, 
A  heart  and  a  hand  for  our  fair  land, 

The  hail  of  the  Friendly  Sons. 


32  SONGS  OP  THE  CELT. 

The  hail  of  the  Friendly  Sons ! 

Through  the  whole  wide  world  it  runs — 
A  tide  from  the  shores  of  Innisfail, 

The  love  that  lives  in  the  soul  of  the  Gael,- 
The  hail  of  the  Friendly  Sons ! 

Howe'er  the  ways  of  love  or  war 

May  claim  our  hand  or  brain, 
Where'er  the  wanderer's  lonely  star 

May  steer  us  o'er  the  main, 
Howe'er  it  chance  by  flood  or  field 

That  there  is  aught  to  dare, 
Whate'er  of  joy  our  fates  may  yield, 

Whatever  pangs  we  bear, 
Still  we  feel  the  thrill  of  that  mighty  hail, 

It  comes  with  the  boom  of  guns, 
A  heart  and  a  hand  for  our  fair  land, 

The  hail  of  the  Friendly  Sons. 

No  voice  compels  like  mother's  voice 

When  calling  to  her  own, 
No  song  makes  heart  of  man  rejoice 

Like  Love's  pure  silver  tone, 
And  Ireland,  mother,  lover  dear, 

Our  fathers  died  for  you : 
They  kept  their  faith  of  freedom  clear, 

And  so  shall  we  be  true. 
For  we  feel  the  thrill  of  their  mighty  hail. 

It  comes  with  the  boom  of  guns, 
A  heart  and  a  hand  for  our  fair  land, 

The  hail  of  the  Friendly  Sons. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  33 


FORE-SONG  OF  MALMORDA. 

I. 

To  me  by  early  morn 
Came  memories  of  Old  Ireland  by  the  sea, 
The  tenderest  and  sweetest  that  there  be, 
Wherein  the  songs  of  water  and  of  wind 
And  joy  of  loving  human  kind 
Mingled  in  ecstacy  of  harmony. 
All  was  so  low-toned  and  so  sweet, 
Near  voices  seeming  ever  to  repeat 
Soft  syllables  of  blessing  on  my  head; 
And  the  faces — ah,  the  faces  of  the  dead 
Companions  of  my  youth  were  there, 
And  one  face  fairer  than  all  faces  fair, 
And  one  face — oh,  my  mother — from  whose  eyes 
The  well-springs  of  all  tendernesses  rise; 

And  all  were  shaping 

Love  and  love  and  love! 

II. 

But  at  night  again 

Came  the  old,  old  pain, 

And  I  saw  the  storm-gods  whirling  through  the  air, 
With  Desolation's  armies  everywhere, 
The  long  and  lean  lines,  ragged,  reaching  back, 
Torch-flared  and  wild-eyed  in  the  wrack, 
And  the  roll,  roll,  roll  of  the  long  thunder, 
As  the  forked  flash  of  the  lightning  leaped  there 
under, 


34  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

And  nowhere  any  peace  or  rest 
For  the  children  of  the  land  they  called  the  Blest. 
But  the  surges  and  the  tempest  loud  were  singing, 
And  the  heavens  through  their  wrath  were  with  it 

ringing, 
All  shaping 

Love  and  love  and  love! 


III. 

Oh  my  soul !  how  can  it  be 

That  by  still  or  stormy  sea, 
By  the  calm  that  swoons  below,  or  the  fury  loose 

above, 

The  voice  of  Erin  calls  on  love  and  love? 
Passionate  our  hearts  be,  well  I  know, 
Whether  our  tears  or  laughter  flow, 
Whether  our  faces  gloom  or  glow. 
Yea,  through  our  Irish  souls  Love's  flame 
Shoots  its  red  blaze  and  shakes  the  frame  ; 
Beats  on  the  heart  with  wings  of  fire, 
As  the  wind's  sleepless  fingers  shake  a  lyre, 
Making  wild  eerie  music  never  stilled. 
And  be  our  lives  with  toil  or  torment  filled, 
Ever  a  crisping,  whisp'ring  undertone, 
Or  hot-caught  fiery  breath  makes  known 
The  dominant,  deep  impulse  that  the  hoar 
Old  ages  stirred  with,  and  that  o'er  and  o'er 
Re-born  with  travail  in  the  hearts  of  men, 
Is  shaping  on  our  lips,  yea,  now  as  then-^ 
Love  and  love  and  love! 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  35 

IV. 

Then  spake  a  voice  to  me : — 
"Beyond  the  far  days  of  the  Flame-god's  time 
A  fair  god  looked  upon  the  young  land's  prime, 
And  on  the  mountains  and  the  streams  and  seas 
Set  seals  of  loving.    Then  in  mystic  threes 
Came  many  gods  to  curse  or  bless, 
Each  with  his  portent  of  the  soul's  distress 
Or  jubilance — Bravery,  Envy,  Jealousy, 
Reverence,  Pity,  Faith — all  joy  that  bides, 
Or  pain  that  lasts  between  the  ocean's  tides, 
Or  through  the  heaven-circling  of  a  star. 
All  these  have  there  endured  to  make  or  mar ; 
But  under  the  sea's  breast  ever  stir  the  dreams 
First  waked  by  love,  and  in  the  babbling  streams 
Love  murmurs  all  day  long, 
And  down  in  the  hearts  of  the  mountains  strong, 
Love  makes  its  melody  of  notes  so  deep 
That  the  dead  gods  stir  in  their  stony  sleep, 

Their  cold  lips  shaping 

Love  and  love  and  love !" 


V. 

Then  full  voiced  came  my  song. 
'Twixt  day  and  dark  the  dead  Past  called  to  me. 
A  long  wave  rolled  along  the  Irish  sea, 
Its  white  foam  fronted  with  tossing  spears, 
Red  with  the  rust  of  a  thousand  years. 
It  brake  on  the  sands  and  the  waters  ran 
With  a  blood-red  stain,  and  the  song  began. 


36  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

They  were  there,  the  steel-capped  Ostman  hordes; 
In  the  dusk  they  flashed  their  two-edged  swords. 
Their  warships  tossed  on  the  purpling  waves  ; 
At  the  rowers'  benches  toiled  the  slaves. 
Then  the  Irish  king  in  his  youth  and  might, 
With  sweep  of  battle  and  roar  of  fight 
About  him,  and  circling  his  Norseland  prize, 
The  blue  of  the  sea  in  her  wild,  sweet  eyes, 
The  life  of  a  man  in  each  strand  of  her  hair, 
And  the  glow  of  a  flame  on  her  bosom  bare. 
'Mid  storm  and  battle,  by  moon  and  mist, 
I  saw  through  their  very  souls,  I  wiste ! 
And  the  shields  that  rang,  and  the  sobs  that  died, 
And  the  echoing  hills  and  the  sombre  tide 
Ever  were  shaping 

Love  and  love  and  love! 


THE  EXILE. 

"Sweep  on!  sweep  on!  triumphant  storm, 
Drape  in  thy  murky  clouds  my  form. 
Lash  still  the  shore,  ye  sounding  waves, 
Rocking  the  dead  in  their  briny  graves. 
Howl  on,  ye  winds,  for  ye  speak  to  me 
More  sweetly  than  mother's  lullaby ; 
The  rush  and  swell  of  thy  thund'rings  grand 
Seem  music  from  my  far-off  land, 
Beyond  the  tumultuous  sea. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  37 

"Here  by  this  naked  rock,  I  keep 
My  vigil  o'er  the  furied  deep. 
I  fly  the  hearts  where  woe's  unknown, 
To  fling,  O  storm,  with  thine  my  moan ; 
To  mix  my  tears  with  thine  icy  spray, 
And  find  in  thy  gloom  a  kindred  day. — 
The  exile  to  darkest  fate  must  bow, 
His  tears  are  gems  from  sorrow's  brow, 
And  shed  but  in  shade  their  ray. 


"Mem'ry,  whose  light  should  never  fade, 
Brings  me  a  wilderness  of  shade ; 
My  land,  whose  face  doth  ever  bloom, 
To  me  is  wrapped  in  sable  gloom. 
So  in  my  bosom  no  rest's  for  me, 
My  soul's  enslaved  till  my  land  is  free — 
Free  as  thy  blast,  O  rushing  wind, 
Free  as  the  swoop  of  an  eagle  mind, 
Free  as  thou,  wild,  upheaving  sea." 


Thus  an  exile  wept  on  a  foreign  shore 
For  the  land  that  his  eyes  would  see  no  more. 
Then  softened  his  heart  till  it  sweetly  thrill'd 
With  dreams  from  his  childhood's  mem'ries  fill'd ; 
Nor,  oh !  in  their  flight  did  they  fail  to  wing 
Where  the  ev'ning  chimes  o'er  a  graveyard  ring, 
And  a  soft  shade  falls  o'er  the  peaceful  dead 
Where  the  green  moss  grows  o'er  his  mother's  head. 
And  his  black  eyes  dimmed  as  his  mem'ries  bound 
Now  hung  o'er  the  breast  of  a  battle  mound, 


38  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

For,  fameless,  forgotten  by  all  but  him, 

His  father  slept  in  its  bosom  grim ; 

And  his  heart  high  heaved  when  his  land  enchain'd 

Of  the  distant  vision  alone  remained. 

Then  no  more  to  the  waters  his  head  was  bowed, 

But  rising  he  cried  'mid  the  storm  aloud — 

"Lord !  Lord,  on  high !  oh,  canst  thou  hear 
My  pray'r  amid  the  storm's  career? 
Stretch  forth  Thy  hand  from  yonder  sky, 
Whence  thus  Thy  flaming  lightnings  fly! 
And  since  that  hand  alone  can  save 
That  to  the  world  existence  gave, 
Here,  'mid  Thy  wonders,  Lord,  I  crave 
My  land  her  freedom,  me  a  grave !" 

As  though  responsive  to  the  Exile's  prayer, 
Loudly  the  thunders  thund'ring  him  rolled ; 
Up  rose  the  deep,  and  soon  the  rock  was  bare, 
While   lightnings  touched  the  broken   wave  with 

gold  ; 

The  winds  wailed  lonely  o'er  its  sullen  breast, 
And  lulled  the  Exile's  broken  heart  to  rest. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  39 


THE  SINGER. 

To  M.  N. 

Once  to  old  Erin  of  the  singing  streams 

I  went  upon  the  wings  of  dreams, 

And  it  was  night  of  cloud  and  sweeping  wind, 

With  here  and  there  a  shining  star 

Upon  the  dark  wastes  of  the  sky  defined. 

And  where  the  mountains   loomed  and  soughing 

trees 

Waved  above  valleys  stretching  dim  and  far, 
I  saw  the  Mother's  loved  and  mighty  form 
Enrobed  as  tho'  in  silver  of  the  rain, 
Her  heaving  breast,  her  curving  hips, 
Her  posture  as  of  one  who  fate  defies, 
Her  hands  clenched   fast,  her  face  raised  to  the 

storm, 

And  deathless  courage  in  her  eyes : 
And  rich  and  loud  from  out  her  parted  lips, 
To  harpnotes  thrilling  with  the  whole  world's  pain, 
Came  forth  her  song  of  resolute  demand 
That  God  might  bless  and  save  her  land. 


THEPOET. 

/•*» 


Strong  voice  for  Freedom,  love-illumined  soul  ; 

Sharp  sword  of  Truth,  held  firm  in  hand  and  bare  ; 
Great  hope-thrilled  singer,  who  beyond  earth's  dole 

Heard  songs  of  jov  which  win  for  us  endure, 

Eternal  joy  be  thine  ! 
Pow'r  was  about  thee;  light  was  in  thy  face, 

And  in  thine  eyes  far,  mystic  visions  shone, 
Where  kin  and  alien  clasped  in  world-embrace, 

And  Right's  battalions  marched  in  thunder  on, 
Making  thy  song  divine. 

First  sang  to  thee  o'er  Ireland's  uplands  green, 
The  skylark's  melody  as  morn  grew  bright, 

Filling  thy  soul  with  love  and  rapture  keen. 
In  sunrise  glory  and  of  lofty  flight 
Thy  song  to  thee  was  born. 

But  ever  round  thee  rose  deep  tones  of  pain 

From  Ireland's  heart  wrung,  and  thy  dark  eyes 


As  wailed  the  women  o'er  their  famine-slain. 
As  men  were  driven  from  the  fields  they  tilled, 
As  children  wept  forlorn. 

Then  fierce  and  passionate  thy  song  began  — 
A  cry  for  vengeance  on  the  tyrant's  horde. 

The  stripling  efamtfAt  but  the  full-grown  man 
Laid  singing  by  and  lifted  up  the  sword, 
To  smite  if  so  to  save. 


SOXGS  OF  THE  CELT.  ^ 

Soldier  and  poet,  God  so  shaped  thy  ways, 
That  though  death  faced  tfaec  amid  prison  chains 

And  hate  and  tuiiuail  dogged  thee  weary  days, 
Fair  Freedom  found  thee,  and  thy  song 
A  clarion  to  the  brave. 


Thy  darkest  dungeon  thoa  hast  made  to 

Thy  sufferings  are  coined  in  songs  of  gold ; 
The  whole  world's  longing  is  transformed  to  dime, 

Lamp  of  the  true  and  Leader  of  the  bold, 

Singer  of  days  to  be. 
Uplifted  prophet,  lightnings  of  the  air 

About  thee  played  and  storm  clouds  at  thy  feet, 
Rolled  rfa^hmg  amid  moans  of  man's  despair, 

While  thy  brave  harp  did  songs  of  hope  repeat; 
And  dawning  days  of  glee. 


For  ?nrid  the  voiceful  volume  of  thy 
The  loud,  high  chords  that  rang  from  land  to 

land- 
Sweet  undertones  of  Love  were  swept  along; 
As  to  the  wave  replies  the  singing  sand 

In  silver-whispered  sound. 
Yea,  these  oar  hearts  heard  as  when  angels  sing. 

Thine  eagle  flight  we  watched  and  heard  the  dove, 
And  ev'ry  height  scaled  by  thy  daring  wing 
Stffl  bioughi  us  closer  to  thy  human  IOTC. 
Beloved  ontfeaps  renowned. 


42  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

Out  of  thy  far  green  island  comes  a  sigh, 

Out  of  our  Free  America  a  moan, 
For  we  are  human,  and  to  die's  to  die. 

And  Fame  doth  not  for  Death's  dull  blow  atone, 

Deathless  albeit  thy  rhyme; 
But  not  for  us  the  shadow  or  the  tear ; 

Thy  living  spirit  like  a  breath  of  flame, 
Radiant  and  beautiful  doth  still  appear, 

A  light  to  glory  in,  a  joy  to  name, 

While  Death  is  slain  by  Time. 


Sing  to  us,  bard  and  brother,  from  the  skies, 

Hurl  against  Wrong  the  terror  of  thy  lance, 
So  we  may  hearken  when  the  million  cries, 

And  what  thou  carried'st  forward  we'll  advance, 

To  fight  while  there  be  need 
The  rusted  tyrannies  that  die  so  hard, 

The  lawless  might  that  rules  by  dint  of  fear, 
The  Greed  that  measures  travail  by  the  yard, 

The  cynic  who  meets  virtue  with  a  sneer, 
The  thought  that  mocks  high  deed. 


And  here  where  Liberty  enthroned  doth  keep 
Thy  name  and  fame  a  firstling  of  her  heart, 

Our  eyes  thy  spirit  follow  in  its  sweep 

To  fair,  sad  Ireland,  where  she  stands  apart 
Praying  a  brighter  day. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  43 

O  Mother  Nature  take  thy  perfect  son, 

Whose  life  a  psalm  was,  and  whose  lips  thine 

pressed 

And  learned  thy  secrets ;  now  the  day  is  done 
Lay  him  in  peace  upon  thy  mighty  breast, 
His  white  brow  twined  with  bay. 


AFTER  THE  LECTURE  ON  SPION  KOP. 

"Man,  Blake  was  fine :  ev'ry  word  that  he  spoke 

Snapped  out  like  the  crack  of  a  whip. 
D'ye  mind  where  he  looked  through  the  cannon 
smoke 

As  the  English  let  go  their  grip  ? 
For  that  one  hot  minute  on  Spion  Kop, 

God  willin',  I'd  roast  ten  years ! 
No  wonder  the  lecture  was  called  to  a  stop 

Till  the  boys  were  dead  with  their  cheers ; 
And,  so,"  said  Burke,  with  his  glass  in  his  hand, 
"God  bless  the  burghers  of  Boerland!" 

"And  Blake  left  a  leg  there,"  'twas  Kelly  stood  up. 

"They've  scattered  the  Irish  Brigade ; 
But  few  as  they  were  they  emptied  their  cup, 

And  the  man  who  dies  twice  isn't  made. 
'Twas  a  fresh  red  mark  on  the  old  war  map ; 

They  signed  it,  men,  for  us  all, 
And  we'd  rather  lie  stiff  with  them  there  in  the  gap 

Than  to  cheer  them  in  Mulligan's  Hall. 
Oh,  the  fights  all  along  the  Tugela  were  grand, 
So,  God  bless  the  burghers  of  Boerland !" 


44  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

"Ah,  things  have  gone  badly,"  said  Burke,  "since 
then." 

"In  time,"  said  Shea  with  a  frown, 
"Two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  men 

Will  wear  thirty  thousand  down." 
"If  I  was  De  Wet,"  said  Burke,  "I'd  set " 

"If  you?  arrah  whisht,"  said  Shea, 
"Phil  Sheridan  couldn't  give  points  to  De  Wet 

In  a  dash  and  a  smash — and  away, 
He'd  keep  up  a  fight  with  a  lone  command — 
God  bless  the  burghers  of  Boerland!" 


"And  the  Boers  are  Protestants.    One  would  think," 

Said  Burke,  "  'twould  for  something  count." 
"In  questions  of  loot,"  said  Shea  with  a  wink, 

"That  wouldn't  reduce  the  amount. 
When  Cromwell  made  Ireland  an  open  grave 

And  gave  us  the  edge  of  the  knife, 
It  wasn't  our  souls  he  wanted  to  save, 

But  to  ease  us  of  land  and  life. 
And  'tis  Ireland  yet,  lads,  mountain  and  strand, 
So,  God  bless  the  burghers  of  Boerland!" 


"The  smoke  of  their  homesteads  darkens  the  sky," 
Said  Burke,  "but  their  guns  are  bright; 

Their  women  and  children  are  herded  to  die, 
But  they  don't  give  up  the  fight. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  45 

The  world  has  left  them,  more  shame  to  the  world, 

To  rastle  their  way  to  death, 
But  an  Englishman's  soul  to  the  pit  is  hurled 

When  a  Boer  gives  up  his  breath. 
And  they're  fighting  to-day  from  the  Cape  to  the 

Rand; 
God  bless  the  burghers  of  Boerland !" 

"A  race  doesn't  hate  for  the  sake  of  hate," 

"Nor,"  said  Kelly,  "when  gun  faces  gun; 
But  the  bitter  black  flower  grows  early  and  late 

Where  the  killing  of  women  is  done; 
On  the  graves  of  the  children  its  roots  strike  deep, 

Then  the  hearts  of  live  men  it  will  clutch, 
And  till  Judgment  their  race  will  its  foothold  keep  ; 

You  can't  kill  the  Irish—or  Dutch ! 
So,  if  none  but  us  three  were  to  stretch  them  a  hand, 
God  bless  the  burghers  of  Boerland!" 


46  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

THE  FRET  OF  FATHER  CARTY. 

After  Last  Mass  on  the  Feast  of  All  Saints. 

"Oh,  wasn't  he  hard  on  poor  sinners  this  mornin'  ? 

And  his  voice,  begor!  was  no  silver-tone  flute 
When  he  gave  us,"  said  Burke,  "the  'third  and  last 
warninY 

With  a  taste  and  smell  of  blue  sulphur  to  boot 
Arrah !  what  takes  good  Father  Carty  so  quarely 

That  he  preaches  of  late  so  mortal  crass?" 
Said  Shea,  "It's  surely  the  gettin'  up  early, 

And  workin'  and  fastin'  for  ten  o'clock  mass." 

"The  priests,"  laughed  Burke,  "are  for  takin'  it  aisy 

As  the  Holy  Father's  four  white  mules. 
But  the  bishops  and  cardinals  drive  them  crazy 

For  spires,  marble  statues,  stained  windows,  and 

schools. 
And  soon  as  ever  a  mortgage  is  lifted, 

They  must  start  out  fresh  for  worry  and  fret. 
If  they  don't,  movrone,  they  are  sure  to  be  shifted 

To  a  Dago  parish  that's  spanceled  with  debt. 

"Still  the  life,  I  am  sure,  would  suit  me  splendid : 

A  snug,  warm  house  with  your  nag  at  the  door, 
And  then,  when  the  ten  o'clock  mass  was  ended, 

To  breakfast  on  bacon  and  chops  galore." 
"Yis,"  Shea  snapped  short,  "you  would  ate,  I'm 
thinkin', 

And  there  your  most  pious  desires  would  stop. 
When  a  man  loves  food  like  that,  he  is  shrinkin' 

His  soul  to  the  size  of  a  mutton  chop. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  47 

"But,  lad,  if  you  lay,  a  ball  in  your  shoulder, 

Blood-soaked  and  pain-racked  and  ravin'   with 

thirst, 
And  a  priest  with  cool  words  and  something  colder 

Was  there  on  his  knees  beside  you — the  first; 
And  said  as  he  soothed  you,  The  good  Lord  thirsted 

And  died  on  the  cross  for  men  like  you/ 
Then  whispered :  'My  son,  the  rebels  were  worsted !' 

You'd  face  your  God  with  a  smile  or  two. 


"And  here  it's :  'Christen  the  child  John  Peter'  ; 

'Plase  marry  me,  Father,  to  Tim  McCann' ; 
'Make  Pat  stop  his  swearin' ' ;  'Make  Julia  neater' ; 

'Give  the  temperance  pledge  to  my  Turk  of  a  man.' 
And  the  vestrymen  about  debts  pursue  him. 

He's  out  upon  sick-calls  tender  and  bright ; 
All  day  all  the  woes  of  the  poor  drive  through  him; 

He  hears  their  confessions  till  nine  at  night." 


"Well,  well,"  stammered  Burke,  "I  was  only  fun- 
nin'." 

"Fun !"  thundered  Kelly.    "Man  hold  your  whist, 
And  think  of  the  hour  that  the  last  fight's  won  in, 

And  the  priest's  face  there  in  the  waverin'  mist — 
The  face  of  a  promise  beyond  the  water 

That  rolls  to  your  feet  without  a  sound. 
Little  help  is  mother  or  wife  or  daughter 

When  you  know  that  your  soul  is  outward  bound. 


48  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

"He  leaves   the  red  blossoms  of  life  to  others, 

And  his  feet  keep  step  to  no  earthly  guide, 
The  poor  far  more  than  the  rich  his  brothers, 

The  Christ  that  he  preaches  has  arms  spread  wide. 
So,  if  of  a  mornin'  his  temper's  fretful, 

And  whether  he  fast  or  whether  he  feast, 
While  he  walks  toward  God,  of  himself  forgetful, 

You  can  see  the  angel  beside  the  priest." 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  49 


WHEN  SHERIDAN  HURLED  THE  DISCUS. 

"Pinch  me;  ay,  punch  me,  for  fear  I'm  not  sitting 

here  reading  the  paper. 
Sure  as  the  sun  in  the  morning  lights  Mangerton 

Mountain  in  Kerry; 
Sure  as  I'm  Shea,  and  ye're  Kelly  and  Burke,  my 

boys;  sure  as  we're  Irish, 
There  in  the  land  of  the  Greeks,  at  the  scratch  in  the 

games  of  Olympus, 
Sheridan's  swing  from  the  shoulder  has  landed  him 

Champion  at  Athens." 

"Champion  of  what?"  cried  out  Kelly.  "Why, 
champion  at  hurling  the  discus." 

"Holy  St.  Patrick !"  said  Burke,  "  'twas  the  game 
of  the  splendid  Greek  heroes. 

Read  every  word  of  it ;  lilt  it  in  music  like  Homer's 
hexameters." 

"Sheridan,  slantha!"  said  Shea,  who,  wiping  his 
lips,  began  reading: 

"  '( Cable  from  Athens  by  way  of  Parnassus  to  Mul 
ligan's  Journal.) 

"Lastly  came  Sheridan,  Irish-American,  throwing 
the  discus. 


50  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

Taking  his  stand  in  the  stadium  under  the  shade  of 

Pentelicus, 
Broad  of  chest,  sinewy,  long-armed  and  supple — a 

Gael  of  Old  Mayo. 
Thousands  and  thousands  of  living  spectators  are 

waving  and  cheering. 
Hovering  over  them,  lo,  too,  a  myriad  silent  and 

ghostly, 
Out  of  the  past  when  the  Parthenon's  pillars  first 

rose  in  the  sunlight  : 
Pallas,  the  Goddess  of  Athens,  is  bending  her  black 

brows  upon  him, 
Phoebus  Apollo,  the  sun  god,  leans  from  his  chariot 

gazing, 
Ares,  the  god  of  the  sword,  and  Hephaestus,  the  god 

with  the  hammer, 
Smile  on  the  Gael  who  is  stripping  his  arms,  and 

uplifting  the  discus. 

"  'Sages  and  poets  and  rulers,  whose  names  are  as 

planets  forever, 
Dim  eyed  and  mistlike  look  down  on  the  pageant: 

Pericles  brooding, 
Socrates    dreaming,    and    Sophocles    seeing    new 

dramas  unrolling, 
Sheridan   standing  the   while   as   he   takes   a  'full 

breath  from  th'  ^Egean. 

"  'Up  where  the  violet  turreted  city  looks  over  the 

water, 
Soldiers  of  Salamis,  heroes  of  Marathon,  helmeted, 

sworded, 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  51 

Seeing  the  muscle-free  grace  of  the  Gael,  and  the 

mould  of  his  torso, 
Look  from  the  clouds  in  a  shadowy  phalanx,  asking 

each  other : — 
"Comes  back  to  earth  our  Androsthenes,  greatest  at 

hurling  the  discus?" 

"  'Hushed  now  the  judges  and  thousands  of  on 
lookers  packed  on  the  benches. 

Sheridan  poises  his  body,  and  glances  along  to  the 
skyline. 

Slowly  he  raises  the  discus,  and,  balanced  an  in 
stant,  seems  pausing. 

Swift  as  a  panther,  then,  whirling  his  arm  and  his 
body  and  bending, 

Hurls  the  broad  discus  that  rises  and  sweeps  thro' 
the  blue  like  an  eagle, 

On,  ever  on,  till  it  seems  it  would  never  more  touch 
the  green  sod  of  Athene. 


"  'Silence !    A  pause,  then  a  shout  like  the  thunder 

that  rolls  on  Olympus. 
Never  in  Greece  of  the  pagan  has  cast  of  the  discus 

outreached  it; 
Never  in  Greece  of  the  Christian  has  cast  of  the 

discus  come  near  it ! 
Thousands  are  shouting  the  praise  of  the  victor, 

and  hymning  his  glory. 
Green  flag  and  gold  harp  are  floating  above  the 

green  turf  of  old  Hellas. 


52  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 

Sheridan!     Sheridan!     Erinn  in   Mikla  will  love 

you  and  cheer  you : — 
Feast  of  the  Greeks,  you  have  made  their  Olympic 

the  goal  of  the  Gael/  " 

"Thunder  an'  turf !"  sang  out  Burke.    "It  is  great ! 

Rise,  Kelly,  and  holler ! 
Gaelic  and   Greek  may   go  dancing  and  laughing 

along  through  the  ages, 
Singing    a    poean    together,    while    Latin,    Dutch, 

Saxon  and  Russian 
Pipe  into  whistle-sticks  fit  for  small  children.     So 

Kelly,  come  holler !" 

"Holler !"  said  Kelly.    "It's  not  so  surprising  to  beat 

out  them  dagoes. 
Sheridan's   great,   but   our    fathers   broke   records 

when  Greece  was  barbarian. 
Mind  you  the  story  of  Lia  Lamh  Laich  by  the  ford 

of  the  Shannon : 
Twenty  men  dead  at  one  swoop  of  the  stone  that 

was  flung  by  young  Finn. 

Think  of  the  spear  cast  of  mighty  Cuchullin,  and 

twenty  more  like  it, 
Telling  the  world  that  the  Gael  asks  no  favor  in 

sport  or  in  battle. 
Not  where  three  men  or  three  hundred  sit  drinking 

the  health  of  the  hero, 
Sounds  the  true  bellnote  that  booms  for  the  fame 

that's  immortal. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  53 

There — look  you  upward — to-night  'twill  be  heard 

in  a  chime  and  full  measure, 
Ringing  the  glory  of  Ireland,  the  mother  of  men  of 

live  muscle ; 
Heard  when  great  Herakles,  rising  and  throwing 

his  club  on  his  shoulder, 
Crosses  the  star  spangled  pavement  of  heaven,  and, 

pointing  to  Athens, 
Shouts   in   good   Irish   that  wakes   up   St.   Peter: 

'Shake  hands,  Finn  MacCool.'  " 


54:  SONGS  OF  THE  CELT. 


BILL  MANNING. 

Where  is  he  gone,  the  queer  little  man, 

Who  made  and  mended  boots  and  shoes  ; 
Who  hammered  the  brogues  and  rushed  the  can, 
And  never  finished  and  never  began, 

While  the  lads  were  discussin'  the  news, 

Bill  Manning. 
Where  is  he?    Movrone!    One  night  at  nine 

He  put  out  the  gas  and  moved  away. 
His  trade  was  good,  for  he  patched  so  fine, 
You  never  could  tell  where  it  was  on  mine. 

He  earned  at  least  two  dollars  a  day! 
Poor  Manning. 


I'm  sorry  he's'  gone.    His  Hole-in-the-Wall 

He  made  a  sort  of  a  Patriots'  Club. 
Night  after  night  he'd  lecture  us  all 
To  give  cash  or  life  at  our  country's  call, 
And  he  barely  cleared  enough  for  his  grub, 
Poor  Manning. 


He  worked  his  days  and  half  of  his  nights, 

But  never  managed  to  forge  ahead. 
The  dead-beats  knew  poor  Bill  to  rights: 
They'd  only  to  say  they  were  Parnellites, 

And  he'd  mend  their  brogues  and  buy  them  bread, 
Poor  Manning. 


SONGS  OF  THE  CELT.  55 

The  begging  nuns  never  called  in  vain; 

Why,  he  used  to  tip  a  Salvation  lass ! 
He  once  brought  a  sick  nigger  out  of  the  rain, 
And  filled  him  with  beer  to  ease  his  pain, 

And  he  always  was  first  at  six  o'clock  mass, 
Poor  Manning. 

No  wonder  he  bought  his  leather  on  tick. 

If  a  poor  child  came  with  a  dime  or  two, 
He'd  say,  and  he  thought  it  a  splendid  trick, 
"I've  put  a  Cork  sole  in  your  brogue,  avic" 

As  he  slipped  a  dollar  inside  the  shoe, 
Poor  Manning. 

For  Patrick's  Day,  he'd  a  grand  tall  hat, 

That  no  one  saw  for  another  year. 
He  talked  of  Emmet  weeks  after  that, 
And  was  proud  that  Sarsfield's  name  was  Pat. 

He  couldn't  say  Ireland  without  a  cheer, 
Poor  Manning. 

Some  say  he's  gone  for  a  soldier  lad ; 

Some  say  he's  married  the  Widow  Magee  ; 
(I  hope  it's  not  true,  for  his  sake,  bedad!) 
Some  say  he's  dead  (that's  not  half  as  bad), 

But  wed  or  dead  I'd  give  money  to  see 
Bill  Manning. 


SONGS  OF  AMERICA. 


AT  LIBERTY'S  FEET. 

Goddess,  slow-born  of  the  ages — Liberty,  light-giv 
ing  soul! 
Raised,    looking    seaward,    gigantic    in    sheen    of 

bronze, 
What  dost  thou  see  in  the  wastes  afar, 

Beyond  where  the  waters  throb, 
Out  where  the  future's  nurselings  are 

And  the  woes  of  the  future  sob? 
What  glory  the  coming  day  dons, 
What  gleams  and  what  glooms  hither  roll? 

Here  we  have  set  thee  in  majesty  fronting  the  ris 
ing  sun, 
Rock-bastioned,   steel   strengthened,  splendid  with 

crown  of  fire, 
To  last  while  man  treads  the  circling  world, 

To  hold  us  to  hate  of  the  wrong, 
To  live  'neath  Love's'  banner  unfurled, 

To  be  good  and  for  Justice  strong, 
To  ascend,  to  uplift,  to  aspire, 
To  stand  fast  by  each  right  well-won. 

Dost  thou  see  the  fulfillment  of  this,  grand  Queen 

of  all  men  free! 
The  old  law  moving  to  better,  the  new  law  on  to 

the  best, 

Ever  on  Toil  a  more  sunny  brow, 
Ever  in  thought  a  purer  flight, 
59 


60  SONGS  OF  AMERICA. 

With  songs  of  sweetness  undreamed  of  now, 

Silver  laughter  and  golden  light, 
A  bond  of  Trust  from  east  to  west, 
A  band  of  Peace  from  sea  to  sea? 

But  ah,  when  thy  mantle  of  bronze  has  crusted 

with  rust  of  green, 
And  the  fresh-cut  stones  at  thy  feet  are  worn  by 

cycles  of  storm, 
And  all  who  gazed  at  thy  new-lit  flame 

Are  gone  on  the  wind  of  Time, 
Shalt  thou  stand  for  an  empty  name? 

Shall  our  hopes  and  dreams  sublime 
Be  as  rust  and  dust  of  thy  form, 
Be  as  dust  of  thy  rust  of  green? 

Oh  never  be  thou  in  one  glory  dimmed  or  thy  stars 

be  less, 
Great  image  of  all  men's  strivings  to  reach  man's 

topmost  goal ! 
Thy  flame  we'll  watch  for  the  years  unborn, 

Though  the  olden  wrongs  die  hard ; 
Thine  altar  with  flow'ring  deeds  adorn  ; 

Thy  throne  with  our  lives  we'll  guard, 
That  thou  may'st  enter  the  broad  world's  soul, 
Forever  to  light  and  to  bless. 


SONGS  OF  AMERICA.  61 


GEORGE  WASHINGTON. 

Can  we  add  to  his  glory  whose  praise  is  ours  ? 

Can  we  rate  him  anew  in  the  lists  of  fame? 
Shall  our  words  or  our  deeds  be  the  worthier  flow'rs 

To  garland  withal  his  immortal  name? 

With  the  breath  of  the  cycle  that  saw  him  grow 
In  wisdom  and  honors  he  passed  away, 

And  the  cankering  years  that  deface  as  they  go 
Still  leave  us  his  spirit  untouched  of  clay. 

Still  gathers  the  tone  that  proclaims  him  great  ; 

Still  spreads  out  the  Nation  that  guards  his  love ; 
Still  moves  with  the  rhythmical  tread  of  fate 

The  march  of  the  People  he  stands  above. 

Not  a  cold,  iron  figure  of  kingly  grain, 
With  a  flinty  face  and  a  biting  sword ; 

Not  the  rude  wolf-suckling  of  savage  strain 
That  Rome  first  knew  for  its  fighting  lord; 

But  a  man's  large  form  with  its  sense  of  might, 
Whose  lips  seem  voicing  a  people's  psalm, 

Whose  eyes  shine  clear  with  a  gracious  light, 
Whose  brow  is  stamped  with  a  godlike  calm. 

Yet,  when  out  of  the  New  World's  travail  of  birth 

A  mail-clad  Liberty-child  was  born, 
And  over  the  utmost  bounds  of  the  earth 

A  voice  of  the  free  was  heard  in  the  morn, 


62  SONGS   OF  AMERICA. 

He  stood  in  the  terrible  gap  of  war 

As  stout  at  the  heart  as  stalwart  of  limb, 

And  within  their  red  lines  stretching  wide  and  far 
The  tyrants  kept  vigil  in  fear  of  him. 

For  always  he  pressed  to  the  marked-out  goal 
In  the  awful  might  of  the  Pure  and  Just  ; 

Lofty,  unflinching — for  strong  of  soul 
With  that  which  is  grander  than  courage — trust. 

Trust  in  the  cause  that  had  armed  his  hand, 
Trust  in  the  people  its  blood  that  spills, 

His  sword  and  his  word  taught  the  battling  land, 
God  will  not  revoke  what  the  people  wills. 

As  he  who  looks  forth  from  a  mountain  peak 
Sees  over  the  hills  to  the  rising  sun, 

While  down  in  the  valleys  the  misty  reek 

Hangs  low,  and  they  know  not  that  night  is  done : 

So,  often  when  those  whom  he  led  could  but  see 
The  smoke  of  disaster  roll  over  the  skies, 

A  gleam  of  the  far  away  victory 

They  caught  in  the  blaze  of  his  blenchless  eyes. 

He  won — and  he  laid  down  his  stainless  sword  ; 

Supreme — he  relinquished  the  ruler's  seat. 
Plain  man  in  pure  honor,  who  ruled  and  obeyed — 

The  kings  of  the  earth  are  but  dwarfs  at  his  feet. 


SONGS   0?  AMERICA.  63 

THE  BATTLE  FLAG. 

O  sweeping  wave  of  white  and  red, 
Flow  ever  at  the  column's  head ! 
O  star-lit  field  of  blue,  lead  on 
Where  Trust  and  Faith  so  oft  have  gone! 
Onward  tho'  foes  dispute  the  way, 
Onward  by  night  and  on  by  day, 
Up  the  slant  path  whatever  bars — 
The  kindred  of  the  mounting  stars — 
Till  he  who  bears  thee  waves  thee  high, 
Where  those  who  scorn  thee  fall  and  die, 
O  battle-flag  of  Ours. 

For  war  has  claimed  thee:  thine  the  strife; 
Thy  threads  all  thrill  with  fighting  life : 
Thy  lifting  wind  a  sulph'rous  blast, 
And  for  thy  flaunting  no  tall  mast 
On  frowning  fort  or  tow'ring  ship, 
Only  a  brave  man's  steadfast  grip 
To  bear  thee  while  the  heavens  reel 
With  crash  of  iron,  flash  of  steel; 
But  Death  a  thousand  lives  must  call 
Ere  thou  shalt  droop,  ere  thou  shalt  fall, 
O  battle-flag  of  Ours. 

O  beauteous  flag  that  Love  upholds, 
Spread  'freedom  'neath  thy  silken  folds, 
And  Truth  and  Justice  mark  thy  sweep 
On  land  or  on  the  rolling  deep ; 
And  stern  and  swift  thy  message  be 
Where  freedom  fails  on  land  or  sea. 


64  SONGS  OF  AMERICA. 

On  by  the  light  from  Glory's  face, 
On  with  the  passion  of  our  race ! 
And  battle  torn  or  redder  dyed, 
Still  float  supreme  in  starry  pride, 
O  battle-flag  of  Ours. 


NATHAN  KALE'S  STATUE. 

Pinioned  and  bound  as  he  stood  erect, 

Smiling  under  the  gallows  tree — 
Thus  let  him  stand,  not  vainly  decked 

For  a  courtier's  immortality. 
Just  as  he  stood,  with  his  brave  breast  bared, 

And  the  fearless  glance  of  his  eye 
Thrilling  the  wretches  who  "round  him  glared, 

And  showing  him  proud  to  die. 

Just  as  he  stood,  so  let  him  stand, 

As  he  prayed  for  a  score  of  lives, 
To  lay  them  down  for  his  bleeding  land, 

What,  strip  him  of  ropes  and  gyves? 
When  the  lord  of  life  meets  the  lord  of  death, 

And  such  a  man  is  the  prize — 
Just  as  they  barter  his  dying  breath, 

Let  him  live  before  our  eyes. 

Aye.  drape  him  just  as  he  stood  that  hour 
When  his  steadfast  courage  rose, 

And,  pinioned  and  gyved,  the  godlike  pow'r 
Of  his  cause  made  blench  his  foes. 


SONGS  OF  AMERICA.  65 

No  knotted  ropes  could  his  free  soul  bind, 

No  gibbet  his  heart  appal — 
He  was  dying  for  freedom  of  humankind, 

For  America,  first  of  all. 

The  steps  of  the  heroes  who  bless  the  earth 

Are  led  not  in  flowery  ways, 
They  face  the  grime,  and  their  glory-birth 

Falls  not  upon  festal  days. 
Their  meat  is  hunger,  and  shame  their  priest 

They  look  not  on  death  as  loss : 
Yea,  dearer  than  Christ  at  the  Paschal  feast 

Is  the  naked  Christ  on  the  cross. 


66  SONGS  OF  AMERICA. 


THE  FUNERAL  OF  GRANT. 

0  watcher  on  the  hills  of  morn:  zvhat  signs  dost 

thou  espyf 
A  flag  upon  a  fortress  and  a  glory  in  the  sky. 

O  soldier  on  the  fortress:  what  of  the  breaking 

morn? 
The  flag  I  serve  is  gemmed  with  stars  from  heaven's 

banner  shorn. 

O  Hag  of  stars:  how  art  thou  watched  that  wavest 

thus  unmarredf 
No  soldier  bears  a  shotted  gun,  though  a  million  are 

on  guard. 

O  million  sons  with  shotless  guns:  why  do  the  can 
nons  boom? 

The  morning  light,  the  cannon  flash  both  glorify  a 
tomb. 

0  morning  light  of  lusty  life:  why  shine st  thou  on 

decay? 

1  shine  upon  the  soul  of  him  whom  death  can  never 

slay. 

O  morn-lit  soul  immortal:  what  do  the  cannons 
sing? 

Their  iron  lips  are  tuned  to  peace  and  gentle  com 
forting. 


SONGS  OF  AMERICA.  67 

0  land  he  saved  to  Freedom:  what  sayest  thou  o'er 

his  clay? 
He  sleeps  on  the  heights,  but  ever  he  guards  us 

night  and  day. 


TECUMSEH'S  REVEILLE. 

[In  Memoriam  William  T.  Sherman,  obiit.,  1891.] 

Thou  didst  write  these  words  with  thine  own  hand 

^'Remind  me  early  in  May 
Of  my  promise  to  be  with  our  boys  in  blue 
When  they  march  on  Memory's  day." 

Alas,  but  the  plumes  are  nodding 

Of  soldiers  about  thy  bier! 
Alas,  but  the  crowds  stand  silent, 

And  the  dirge  falls  dead  on  the  ear ! 
Alas,  but  the  trumps  are  sounding 

"Retreat"  before  May  is  here ! 

Yet  there  is  thy  promise,  as  clear  to  me 

As  if  voiced  by  a  hundred  guns, 
And  I  know  at  the  sound  of  our  reveille 

Thou  wilt  answer,  "Ready,  my  sons !" 

But  where  shall  the  call  be  sounded 

When  the  trees  are  abud  in  May, 
To  pierce  to  the  ears  of  the  spirit 

And  quicken  again  his  clay  ? 


6$  SONGS  OF  AMERICA. 

Shall  it  be  where  his  legions  battled 

As  he  marched  from  the  mount  to  the  sea? 
Shall  it  be  where  he  bore  our  banner 

And  the  graves  of  our  foemen  be? 
Shall  it  be  where  he  stood  triumphant 

As  his  cannon  went  rumbling  by, 
And  his  hundred  thousand  bayonets 

Flashed  back  to  the  Southern  sky, 
And  the  cries  of  joy  over  treason  dead 

Made  a  chorus  that  will  not  die? 


No,  not  alone  where  thy  mailed  hand  'fell 
When  "smite"  was  the  true  man's  word : 

The  balm  is  poured  where  swept  thy  sword, 
There  is  peace  where  the  war-winds  stirred, 

There  are  sounds  as  calm  as  the  vesper  bell 
Where  the  battle  for  Union  roared. 


So,  east  and  west  in  the  pearly  morn, 

Yea,  north  and  south  at  dawn 
Of  a  day  in  May 
When  the  buds  are  new, 

When  the  month  is  newly  born, 
Let  the  silver  trumpets  clear  and  true 

At  the  lips  of  the  brave  be  blown — - 
The  Union's  children  of  brain  and  brawn — 

Till  a  thrill  through  the  Nation  runs, 
And  I  know  at  the  blast  of  that  reveille 

He  will  answer,  "Ready,  my  sons!" 


SONGS   OF  AMERICA 

Then,  when  we  gather  to  deck  the  graves 

Of  the  Union  dead,  we'll  know 
That  Sherman  is  watching  us  marching  past 

'Neath  our  flag  with  its  stars  aglow — 
The  flag  that  blesses,  the  flag  that  saves, 
The  flag  he  bore  through  the  battle  blast 

In  the  face  of  the  Union's  foe. 

And  his  soul  will  abide  by  his  pledge  to  the  end 

To  stand  at  the  great  review, 
When  far  in  the  past  all  the  war  drums  blend 

To  a  single  faint  tattoo. 
But  if  ever  a  foe  lifts  hostile  hand, 

Then  louder  than  Sumter's  guns 
Will  ring  through  the  breadth  of  the  Union  land 

His  rally-call,  "Ready,  my  sons !" 


70  SONGS   OF  AMERICA. 


SALVE! 

Where  thou  standest,  Eulalia, 

In  thy  hands  a  sheaf  of  bloom, 
Twined  with  love  for  our  Ulysses, 

In  the  twilight  of  his  tomb, 
Not'st  thou  not  a  murmur  mystic 

Stirring,  thrilling  through  the  air? 
Hear'st  thou  not  the  far-off  echoes 

Of  a  silver  trumpet's  blare? 
Hark,  the  battle-harness  clinking 

As  it  sounded  cycles  gone, 
When  Spain  rose  against  the  Moslem, 

And  thy  champions  thundered  on  ; 
Ghostly  lion  banners  flutt'ring 

Ghostly  standards  of  Castile ; 
Sword  'gainst  scimetar  sharp  clashing; 

Stamp  on  stone  of  mail-clad  heel; 
Loud  Te  Deums  grandly  chanted 

Sink  to  whispers  in  thine  ears. 
Round  thee,  Princess,  see,  they  gather, 

Splendid  wraiths  of  glorious  years! 
From  them  comes  one  voice,  the  clearest 

Ever  woke  the  soul  of  Spain. 
But  one  word  it  sayeth  "Salve!" 

"Hail,  high  captain  free  of  stain !" 
Clear,  beneath  the  vault  it  ringeth 

As  thou  layest  on  his  tomb 
In  the  Maytime  fresh  with  dewdrops, 

From  thy  hands  a  sheaf  of  bloom. 


SONGS  OF  AMERICA.  71 

Love's  hand  led  thee  to  the  portal ; 

Love's  lamp  lit  thee  through  the  door, 
Bringing  our  dead  Captain  greeting 

From  El  Cid  Campeador. 


MOTHER  AMERICA. 

[From  the  Manhattan  Day  Ode  to  Chicago.] 

Mightiest  type  of  the  human, 
Praised  be  again  and  again, 

Broad-breasted  mother  of  woman; 
Giant-limbed  mother  of  men. 

Mother  majestic  and  splendid, 
Mother  of  glories  and  joys, 

By  wisdom  and  power  attended, 
Jubilant  mother  of  boys : 

Mother  most  tender  and  holy, 

Whose  tears  are  as  lovely  as  pearls ; 

Guardian  of  gentle  and  lowly, 
Delicate  mother  of  girls: 

Mother  of  mountain  and  river, 

Who  looketh  from  foam  to  foam — 

Mother,  the  bountiful  giver, 
Beautiful  mother  of  home: 


72  SONGS   OF  AMERICA. 

Mother  of  sower  and  reaper, 
Of  crops  and  of  fruitful  soil, 

Of  manhood  the  builder  and  keeper, 
Mother  of  glorified  toil: 

Mother  of  fruit  and  of  flower, 
Of  the  flocks'  and  herds'  increase ; 

Mother  of  sunbeam  and  shower, 
Plentiful  mother  of  peace: 

Mother  of  science  far-reaching, 

Of  music  that  swells  from  thy  heart, 

Of  beauty  beyond  the  old  teaching, 
Mother  of  purified  art: 

Mother,  whose  bosom  shall  mingle 
The  red  of  all  blood  that  flows, 

Till  lastly  it  runneth  as  single 
And  pure  as  the  streams  from  snows. 

Mother,  the  roseate  ever, 
Robed  in  the  sunset's  bars, 

Mother  of  lofty  endeavor, 

Crowned  with  the  diamond  stars : 

Mother,  our  love  thy  defender, 
Mother,  thy  love  our  might ; 

Mother,  thy  glory  our  splendor, 
Mother  of  freedom  and  light: 
Mother  America! 


SONGS   OF  AMERICA.  73 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  MILLIONS. 

[From  the  Manhattan  Day  Ode  to  Chicago.] 

Hark  to  the  march  of  the  millions  whose  murmur 
ous  work-songs  arise  at  the  dawn, 
Humming  and  throbbing  and  clanking  their  looms 

and  their  engines  till  day  has  withdrawn, 
Chaining  the  forces  of  earth  and  of  air  as  their 

slaves  for  the  saving  of  toil, 
Seeking  new  secrets  and  heaping  up  trophies  of 

science  in  spoil  upon  spoil. 
What  can  withstand  them,  what  can  o'ermatch  them 

in  prowess  and  riches  and  pride? 
Wonder  not,  then,  that  new  millions  are  pouring 

upon  us  on  tide  after  tide — 
Pale-fronted  millions,  grown  bitter   from  holding 

the  stirrups  and  bridles  of  kings, 
Praying  but  light  and  a  spade  in  the  open — for 

manhood  that  labors  and  sings. 
Oh,  for  these  newly  born  brothers  and  sisters,  yea, 

for  ourselves,  let  us  ask, 
Have  we  not  grander  and  brighter  a  guerdon  to 

offer  than  song  with  a  task  ? 

What  to  grow  richer  in  gold  till  our  eagles  out 
number  our  tassels  of  corn, 
If  in  the  land  of  the  eagle  our  souls  cannot  soar  on 

the  wings  of  the  morn? 
What  to  grow  mightier,  huger  and  greater,  many  as 

sands  of  the  sea, 
If  we  grow  not  ever  better  and  purer,  happier, 

gladder,  more  free? 


74  SONGS   OF  AMERICA. 

Free  with  a  freedom  of  sunshine  and  breezes,  glad 

as  the  waters  that  leap, 
Happy  as  love  on  the  lips  of  a  maiden,  and  pure  as 

an  infant  asleep. 


ABSIT  OMEN. 

For  him  who  brake  in  thund'rous  fray  the  ocean 

power  of  Spain 
We  have  rebuilt  the  Flavian  arch — of  Titus,  lord 

of  Rome, 
Who  harried  fair  Jerusalem  and  spoiled  her,  mart 

and  fane. 

Beneath  the  arch  of  Titus,  lo !  we  hail  our  Hero 
home. 


Sheer  and  strong  its  columns,  stark  symbols  of  the 

Roman  might, 
When  Appian  Way  resounded  with  the  victor's 

loud  acclaim, 
But  Rome's  grim  road  to  Empire  led  her  down  the 

steeps  of  night: 

Wild    spearsmen    smote   her   helpless,    and   bar 
barians  mocked  her  name. 


SONGS  OF  AMERICA.  75 

For  cruel  lust  and  lusty  greed  had  tracked  her  san 
daled  tread, 
She  ruled  o'er  shackled  peoples,  and  races  shamed 

and  cowed, 
Whose  toil  piled  up  her  granaries,  whose  rubies 

decked  her  head, 

Whose  one  red  dream  was  vengeance  and  their 
conqueror  in  a  shroud. 

While,  then,  to  blast  of  trumpet  and  deafening  roll 

of  drums, 
From  where  his  brave  Olympia  cuts  the  wave 

with  bow  of  steel, 
In  a  flame  of  waving  color  on  a  sea  of  cheers  he 

comes, 

Fast  stand  we  still  for  freedom-robing  manhood, 
head  to  heel. 

The  healing  as  the  smiting  hand  be  ours  in  on 
ward  march. 

We  are  free  burghers,  strange  to  ways  of  Em 
perors  and  Kings, 
And  when   of  Rome's  blood-spattered  stones  we 

take  the  Victor's  arch, 

Give  we  new  wings  to  Victory,  love's  wide,  pro 
tecting  wings! 


76  SOXGS   OF  AMERICA. 


THE  SOXG  OF  OLD  GLORY. 

I. 

Shall  we  sing  of  grand  Old  Glory, 

With  its  flowing  stripes  and  stars? 
Shall  we  tell  its  homely  story, 

Or  its  battle  fame  in  wars  ? 
Why  we're  here  to  chant  in  chorus, 

Tis  the  best  on  land  or  sea, 
And  with  friend  or  foe  before  us, 

That  our  thunder  song  shall  be: — 


Glory,  Glory,  grand  Old  Glory, 
Light  on  the  land,  star  on  the  sea, 
Our  darling  and  our  splendor, 
Every  man  its  stout  defender, 
Flag  of  the  free,  Old  Glory. 


II. 

Was  it  through  the  Revolution, 

Bringing  vict'ry  everywhere? 
Wras  it  where  the  Constitution 

Rattled  down  the  Guerriere? 
Why,  our  fathers  sang  the  chorus  ; 

'Tis  our  song  of  jubilee, 
And  the  mothers  good  who  bore  us 

Sang  it  to  us  on  their  knee. 


SONGS   OF  AMERICA.  77 

III. 

Was  it  following  the  sunset 

With  the  hardy  pioneer? 
Was  it  where  the  Indian  onset 

Met  the  settlers'  ringing  cheer? 
Why  they  fought  and  sang  in  chorus, 

And  they  ploughed  and  sowed  the  lea ; 
They  were  brave  the  men  before  us, 

And  as  brave  too  let  us  be. 


IV. 

Did  it  march  with  Grant  and  Sherman 

When  the  Union  rocked  in  pain? 
Did  it  swell  from  Celt  and  German 

As  they  shed  their  blood  like  rain  ? 
Why,  thro'  fire  they  sang  the  chorus, 

Gallant  boys  from  over  sea, 
And  at  ev'ry  shot  that  tore  us, 

Raised  the  chant  of  Liberty. 

V. 

Does  it  go  with  clang  of  hammer? 

Can  it  keep  electric  speed? 
Is  it  'mid  the  crash  and  clamor 

Of  the  rushing  iron  steed? 
Why,  all  labor  hums  the  chorus; 

For  the  lusty  toilers  see, 
That  the  starry  banner  o'er  us 
Carries  Freedom's  wide  decree. 


78  SONGS  OF  AMERICA. 

VI. 

Does  it  ring  through  school  and  college 

As  it  rang  through  strife  and  fray? 
Is  it  after  song  of  knowledge? 

Is  it  meet  for  time  of  play? 
Why,  our  babies  lisp  the  chorus : 

As  the  sapling  so  the  tree, 
And  our  sweethearts  fair  implore  us, 

Ever  true  to  it  to  be. 

VII. 

It  shall  be  our  chant  forever, 

On  the  land  and  on  the  foam : 
It  shall  sanctify  endeavor, 

It  shall  glorify  the  home. 
Why,  our  souls  are  in  the  chorus, 

And  our  hearts  beat  time  in  glee 
And  as  long  as  Heaven's  o'er  us, 

Shall  our  land  be  great  and  free. 


POEMS. 


THE  SOUL  OF  NIPPON.* 

A  Mediaeval  Legend  of  Japan. 

At  winter  dusk  upon  the  hillside  cold, 

While  shivering  trees  made  moan, 

Went  Hojo  Tokiyori  all  alone. 

Free  of  his  Regent  robes  and  zone  of  gold, 

Free  of  all  trappings  of  imperial  state, 

Plain  garbed  as  Buddhist  priest,  he  bent  his  head 

Before  the  icy  winds  that  beat 

Upon  him  as  he  upward  strode. 

Rough  and  stony  was  the  road ; 

Across  the  rim  of  waters  Fuji's  crest 

Rose  dim  and  blue  against  the  paling  West. 

Bare  lay  the  frosted  valley  at  his  feet, 

And  faint  and  far  upon  the  plain  below, 

The  lights  of  Kamakura  shed  their  glow. 

He  turned  and  gazed  and  grimly  said, — 


"No  royal  palace  is  the  home  of  truth, 
So  now  I  dare  what  every  mortal  fears — 
The  judgment  of  a  man  by  his  compeers — 
The  test  that  men  still  flinch  from  till  they  die. 
For  if  I'd  still  hold  rule  supreme,  be  great 

*Under  the  title  Trees  in  Jars,  this  legend  forms  the  basis  of 
a  chant  used  in  the  classic  Japanese  No  dance,  which,  with  its 
Chorus,  robed  actors  and  musicians,  strikingly  suggests  the  begin 
nings  of  the  Greek  drama.  Tokiyori  was  a  Shikkin,  or  Regent,  of 
the  Hojo  family,  real  rulers  of  Japan  under  the  sacred  but  se 
cluded  and  powerless  Mikado.  They  flourished  in  the  thirteenth 
century  A.  D.  The  Regent  was  Shogun,  or  chief  general,  as  well, 
unless  he  delegated  that  power. 

81 


82  POEMS. 

Of  deed  and  mind, 

Myself  must  learn  what  man  't  is  guards  my  gate ; 

Must  learn  what  man  am  I. 

And  haply  in  the  hollows  of  the  wind, 

The  mighty  soul  of  Nippon  I  shall  find." 

Closer  he  drew  his  robe  of  ashen  gray, 

And  faced  once  more  the  darkening,  upward  way. 

On,  on  he  trod  'neath  cloud-veiled  stars  till  dawn, 

His  spirit  to  the  soul's  high  levels  drawn, 

And  begged  for  food  or  sleeping  place 

From  poor  and  rich,  from  good  and  base. 

And  ever  learned  he  more  from  friend  and  foe 

The  subtle  things  that  dynasts  seek  to  know 

Of  wit  or  warning  against  overthrow. 

Often  in  lordly  hall  or  peasant's  cot, 

In  words  of  praise  or  slight, 

With  deepened  shadows  or  excess  of  light, 

Saw  his  own  picture  drawn,  and  knew  it  not. 

"Yea,  words  are  plenty :  wisdom  rare,"  said  he. 

"My  name  of  common  tongues  the  sport, 

The  shuttlecock  of  good  and  ill  report; 

Yet  in  it  all  no  sunrise-ray  there  be. 

O  Soul  of  Nippon,  speak  thou  unto  me !" 

From  fruitless  searchings  by  the  Eastern  strands, 

Through  winter  days,  and  toiling  sore, 

Back  by  Shinano's  wild  volcanic  lands 

The  weary  Tokiyori  bore, 

Till  lost  in  Kozeki  on  an  eve  of  storm, 

It  seemed  he  could  no  farther  go. 


POEMS.  83 

The  night  had  fall'n,  and  with  it  came  the  snow, 

In  blinding  flakes  and  dancing  whirls  of  white, 

And  numb  his  hands  and  feet  began  to  grow, 

When,  as  through  tattered  shojis,  came  a  gleam — 

Dim  as  a  blurred  star  in  a  dream — 

And  groping  toward  it  painfully, 

He  paused,  and  cried,  "Pray  shelter  me." 

Back  slid  the  shoji,  and  a  gaunt  old  man 
Came  out,  and  looked  upon  the  farer's  face. 
His  smile  of  welcome  died,  and  in  its  place 
Came  awe  and  shame;  then,  halting,  he  began, — 
"Most  reverend — and  noble — we  are  poor; 
A  famine-hut  that  dogs  would  not  endure. 
Cross  yonder  hill,  and  richer  folk  you'll  find." 

And  Tokiyori  silent  faced  the  wind. 

Now  came  the  aged  good  wife  raging  forth, 

Her  anger  rising  more  and  more. 

"Sano  gan  Zymo,"  said  she,  "where's  the  worth 

Of  being  born  a  samurai, 

Thus  to  debase  the  honor  of  your  door? 

On  night  like  this  to  turn  a  man  away 

When  we  should  open  to  a  beast?" 

"Before  him,  wife,  a  lordlike  priest," 

Old  Sano  muttered,  "we  should  die  of  shame." 

"Were  he  the  Regent,"  cried  the  dame, 

"You  should  not  let  him  go 

To  die  amid  the  wind  and  snow. 


84  POEMS. 

Who  knows  but  this  our  life  of  bitter  need 
Comes  from  God's  finger,  pointing  to  no  deed 
Of  godlike  charity  to  light  our  path? 
We  little  have :  the  strange  priest  nothing  hath. 
Run :  bid  him  back,  my  lord,  to  warmth  and  rest. 
Say :  'Come,  most  reverend,  we'll  share  our  best !' ' 

Within  the  hut  around  the  little  fire, 

Sat  Tokiyori  with  the  man  and  wife, 

Sharing  their  scanty  millet  dish, 

And,  ever  as  the  embers  'gan  expire, 

A  little  tree  flung  on  them  gave  them  life — 

Three  little  trees  with  large  and  fair  good-wish. 

First  'twas  a  dwarfish  pine  tree  long  of  days, 
And  next  a  tiny  plum  tree  kings  would  praise, 
And  last  a  dainty  cherry  fed  the  blaze. 

Said  Tokiyori,  "You  are  poor  indeed, 

Yet  you  are  burning  trees  you've  grown  in  jars, 

Which  only  rich  ones  can  afford." 

And  Sano,  stooping  still  the  flames  to  feed, 

Made  answer  smiling,  "Truly,  Reverend  lord, 

Not  with  my  low  estate  do  they  accord : 

But  in  these  scarecrow  tatters  you  behold 

One  brave  among  the  samurai  of  old, 

And  one  from  whom,  while  in  the  Shogun's  wars, 

His  tyrant  neighbors  took  his  lands  by  force, 

And  left  him  but  this  hut,  his  battle-horse, 

And  these  three  little  trees. 

Yet  grieve  not,  priest,  their  tender  beauty  fled, 


POEMS.  85 

For  where  can  costly  wood  the  better  burn 

Than  on  the  hearth  where  warms  man's  love  for 

man? 

And  flower  and  leaf  return  to  God  the  best 
In  lighting  up  the  welcome  of  a  guest  ; 
Yea,  since  it  is  the  gift  of  God  to  live, 
The  greatest  joy  in  living  is  to  give." 

"The  greatest  joy  is  giving,"  Tokiyori  said. 
"And  love  is  giving  all,"  said  Sano's  dame. 

"Love,"  smiled  old  Sano,  "is  life's  fire  and  flame, 
And  evermore  my  heart  grows  warm  and  light 
That  when  I  bade  you  forth  in  wind  and  snow, 
My  goodwife  breathed  the  voice  of  Bushido, 
That  teaches  when  a  stranger  's  at  the  door 
The  face  that  looks  thereout  should  aye  be  bright, 
Nor  poor  need  be  the  welcome  of  the  poor. 
Were  he  the  Regent,  take  him  in/  she  cried." 

"And  if  I  were?"  asked  Tokiyori  low. 

"Ah,  for  the  Shogun,"  Sano  cried  aloud, 

"I  hold  my  life  when  all  is  lost  beside. 

My  old  white  horse  still  lives  to  bear  me  proud 

To  battle  at  my  lord  the  Shogun's  call. 

My  two-hand  sword,  tho'  rusty,  hangs  him  there, 

Ready  when  forth  my  horse  and  I  shall  fare 

For  Tokiyori,  greatest  lord  of  all." 

And  Tokiyori  smiled: — "Lo,  now  I  know." 


86  POEMS. 

From  Kamakura  soon  came  call  to  war, 

The  war-drums  rattling  loud  through  all  the  ways. 

And  warriors  trooped  from  near  and  far — 

Veterans  many  from  old  fields  hard-won, 

And  youths  who  yet  no  shining  deed  had  done. 

And  all  in  clanking  panoply  of  fight, 

From  cot  and  castle,  and  from  field  and  town, 

Came  lightfoot  o'er  the  hills  before  the  night, 

And  poured  through  all  the  valleys  to  the  plain, 

With  cries  and  cheers, 

Till  morning  flared  its  red-gold  arrows  down 

Upon  a  hundred  thousand  swaying  spears. 

Sat  Tokiyori  on  his  battle-steed, 
His  great  soul  shining  in  his  searching  eyes. 
About  him  daimios,  armed  and  spurred, 
And  shomios  ready  or  to  strike  or  bleed, 
Or  challenge  death  in  any  noble  guise, 
All  watchful  waiting  for  his  word. 

Then,  as  the  silent  waters  break 

With  sudden  wind-stroke  into  weltering  sound, 

He  spake : — 

"Now  know  I  Nippon  hath  but  one  great  soul. 

That  soul  hath  answered  to  its  Shogun's  call, 

And  whither  hence  the  tide  of  war  shall  roll, 

Before  it  every  foe  must  fall. 

Long  did  I  seek  what  now  I  know. 

It  came  to  me  mid  wind  and  snow, 

And  in  this  host  the  proof  shall  stand  forth  clear: — 

A  gaunt  old  man  upon  an  old  white  horse, 


POEMS.  87 

His  sword  two-handed,  and  his  eyes  like  flame, 
His  armor  rusty  and  his  garments  coarse, — 
Sano  gan  Zymo  is  his  name : 
Find  him,  and  bring  him  here." 

Lo,  from  far  off,  amid  the  silent  host, 

Came  Sano  with  his  tottering  beast, 

His  heart  scarce  beating,  eyes  in  wonder  lost, 

The  old  horse  trailing  at  his  bridle-rein. 

'Salute  the   Shogun:  bow!"     But   Sano   muttered 

fain, — 
"This  is  no  Shogun,  but  a  reverend  priest." 

"Nay,  soul  of  Nippon,"  answered  Tokiyori  low, 
"You  sheltered  me  from  wind  and  snow. 
For  me  you  burned  your  costly  trees  in  jars, 
And  pledged  your  life  unto  the  Shogun's  wars. 
'T  was  Tokiyori  warmed  him  in  your  room, 
And  saw  the  soul  of  Nippon  in  your  eyes. 
Your  stolen  lands  I  solemnly  restore, 
And  ere  we  march,  I  give  to  you  a  prize : — 
Reign  lord  of  Sakurai  where  cherries  bloom, 
Of  Matsuida  where  the  pine  tree  grows." 
And  fair  Umeda  where  the  plum  tree  blows." 

"Sano  Meditashi !"    Hark,  a  storm  of  cheers. 
"Hojo,  banzai !  live,  lord,  ten  thousand  years." 

And  kneeling  spellbound,  answering  through  tears 

That  still  would  flow, 

Old  Sano  faltering  said, — 

"Great  fighting  lord,  until  this  old  gray  head 


88  POEMS. 

Is  laid  in  earth,  command  my  arm,  my  life, 

And  never  shall  I  swerve. 

I  did  but  what  is  law  of  Bushido — 

To  give,  to  love,  to  serve. 

Praised  be  the  Shogun! — honored,  too,  my  wife!" 

And  Tokiyori  rode  to  battle  with  a  smile. 


THE  MESSENGER  FROM  MARATHON. 

Victory!  cry  of  all  cries  after  battle, 
Victory!  only  cry  worthy  of  breath, 

Lifting  the  soul  up  and  thrilling  the  heart  strings, 
Shaking  the  heavens  and  laughing  at  death. 

Never  glowed  sunburst  more  sudden  and  wondrous, 
Scattering  darkness  and  slaying  the  night, 

Than  when  upon  Marathon  headlong  the  Greeks 

charged 
Down  on  the  Persians — a  torrent  of  fight. 

Sword  of  Miltiades!  shield  of  Athene! 

Loud  cry  for  Greekland  in  whirlwind  of  slaughter, 

Ten  'gainst  a  hundred  of  thousands,  yet  drove  them 

And  slew  them  in  scores  to  the  edge  of  the  water. 

Virgin  of  Athens!    Victory!    Victory! 

Voice  of  Miltiades :  "Who'll  bear  the  word  of  it 
Fastest  to  Athens  and  free  her  from  fear  ?" 
Springs  a  young  soldier  forth,  crying  out:  "Here!" 
Dropping  helmet  and  spear. 


POEMS.  89 

Six  words  of  a  pray'r  to  Athene — then  gone. 

Swiftly  he  skims  the  red  plain, 

Skirting  the  blood-pools  and  masses  of  dead. 

Light  on  the  forehead ;  joy  in  his  tread ; 

Lavish  of  vigor,  lengthy  of  stride; 

Ever  on!     Ever  on! 

Scorning  the  stress  and  the  strain, 

Sees  the  broad  slopes  of  the  mountain  arise, 

Laughs  at  the  hot  sun  that  flames  in  his  eyes, 

Faces  the  steep  of  Pentelicus, 

Fired  by  the  word  in  his  heart  held, 

"Victory!    Victory!    Victory!" 

Where    echo    alone    from    the    mountain    replies : 

Victory ! 

Smothering  heart-beat  and  breath-drawing  pain 
He  shouts  it  again 

Victory ! 

Never  a  pause  as  he  masters  the  top, 
But  plunges  on  down  the  white  line  of  the  road ; 
Long-drawn-out  distances  stretch  dim  before  him; 
Hot  pace  and  hot  sun  are  wearing  him  down ; 
Hill  after  hill  comes  as  load  upon  load; 
But  the  joy  he  is  bringing  still  serves  as  a  goad ; 
Thirst  in  the  throat,  but  of  water  no  drop ; 
Dust  stings  and  blinds  him  and  chokes  him  ; 
Shudd'ring,  he  thinks,  if  the  heart  beats  so, 
Why  must  the  beat  of  his  feet  fall  slow  ? 
His  head  swims  faint  in  the  blasting  heat, 
Sisyphus  rock  seems  as  laid  on  his  shoulders, 


90  POEMS. 

Breaking  his  loins  and  crushing  his  knees, 

And  the  roadstones  loom  in  giant  boulders. 

"O  gods,"  he  cries,  "for  a  draught  or  a  breeze" ; 

But  he  must  not  stop. 

Though  his  footfalls  drag— Klop!     Klop!     Klop! 

Klop! 

For  the  wonderful  word  must  in  Athens  be  spoken, 
And  the  fear  of  her  people  be  broken. 
And  still  in  short  gaspings  the  baked  lips  utter : 

Victory !    Victory ! 
Virgin  of  Athens,  uphold  him  staggering  on ! 

In  the  violet-turreted  town. 

Hours  creep  to  hours  thro'  the  dragging  day : 

Shadows  upon  Hymettus'  slope 

Lengthen  like  dark  despair  o'ermastering  hope ; 

Priests  in  the  temples,  fearful,  pray: 

Old  men  silent  pace  up  and  down : 

High  from  Acropolis  eyeballs  strain 

'Cross  the  Attic  plain 

To  the  hillside  streak  of  the  road  from  Marathon. 

One  cries  "Some  form  is  moving  there."     "Speak, 

speak ! 

Is  it  Persian  or  Greek?" 
"God    knows!      Run    forth    to   meet    him:    run!" 

"No,  wait  ; 

A  Greek  must  not  fear  to  face  his  fate." 
Yet  some  forth  venture,  and  they  see 
A  man  dust-covered  staggering  zigzag  on. 
"He's  Greek,"  they  cry,  "but  life  has  gone 
From  out  his  staring  eyes  and  rigid  face; 


POEMS.  91 

His  arms  swing  deadlike :  look,  he'll  fall." 

"No !  see,  he's  swerving  to  the  market-place." 

They  close  around  him.    "Tell,  oh  tell ! 

Tell  us  in  the  battle  what  befell." 

He  touches  one,  shrinks  back,  and  swaying  dazed, 

he  stands. 

Then  sudden  flame  his  eyes,  and  lifts  his  head, 
And  throwing  up  his  hands,  he  cries 
"Victory!" 
And  at  their  feet  falls  dead. 

"Victory!    Victory!" 
Now  a  thousand  voices  shout, 
And  a  hundred  trumps  ring  out — 
Victory ! 

Forever  glorious  Marathon!  forever  glorious  Mes 
senger  ! 

Victory !    Victory !    Victory ! 


POEMS. 


THE  BANISHMENT. 

A  beautiful  marble  group  of  Eros  and  Psyche  was  recently  or 
dered  to  be  removed  from  above  a  young  girl's  grave  in  the  great 
metropolitan  cemetery  as  "undesirable." 

"Pale  marble  effigies  of  Pagan  joy, 
You  have  no  place  above  a  Christian  grave: 
Your  young  Greek  rapture  doth  the  dead  annoy, 
Whom  Christ,  thorn-crowned,  was  crucified  to  save. 

Here  all  is  cold.    Here  faith  is  frozen  calm. 

Here  hope  is  sober  as  a  winter  cloud. 

Love  must  seem  sorrow.    But  the  martyr's  palm 

Shall  mate  the  willow  silver-grey  and  bowed. 

Here  sunshine  should  not  dance  but  to  a  psalm. 

Here  winds  should  never  pipe  their  songs  aloud. 

For  sign  of  life,  the  shaven  grass  alone. 

For  memory,  a  labyrinth  of  stone, 

Whence  random  shafts  and  broken  columns  rise, 

Or  shapes  in  rigid  garments  point  to  distant  skies. 

"To  statues  bare  like  you,  the  Board, 
Both  scandalized  and  wroth,  demurs : 
Nor  place  nor  plot  to  you  it  can  afford." 
Thus  spake  the  Master  of  the  Sepulchres. 

But  at  night,  when  the  full  moon  shed 
Her  blue-green  magic  among  the  graves, 
And  the  stars  flashed  faint  in  a  sky  of  steel, 
While  the  low  wind  ruffled  the  grass  as  it  sped, 
The  harsh  gate-bell  rang  a  shivering  peal 
That  jangled  chill  o'er  the  harbor  waves. 


POEMS.  93 

Lo,  countless,  out  of  the  heaving  ground, 

Rose  mistlike  forms  with  a  wavering  glow 

Pale  pulsing  where  their  hearts  had  been. 

And  they  hovered  as  knowing  not  whither  to  go, 

Till,  caught  and  swirled  on  a  breeze  terrene, 

They  streamed  and  eddied  around  and  around, 

And  swept  down  the  walks  with  never  a  sound 

To  trouble  the  calm  of  moon  or  star. 

And  the  lovers  of  old  from  their  stone  awoke. 

While  curled  at  their  feet  an  altar  smoke, 

And  thither  the  river  of  spirits  flowed 

To  the  lilt  and  thrill  of  an  old  Greek  ode, 

With  echo  of  harp  and  flute  from  afar. 

Then  the  misty  throng  from  its  silence  broke. 

Some  flashed  rose-pale  and  some  went  gray  ; 

And  ghosts  of  sighs,  and  shades  of  smiles  were  rife; 

And  bubbling  murmurs  seemed  to  say : — 

"Joy!  this  is  Love"  and  "This  is  Life!" 

"Yea,  I  am  Life"  said  the  marble  maid, 

"I  am  the  Human  Soul, 

That  out  of  the  mists  eternal  came 

To  touch  the  ooze  with  a  breath  of  flame, 

And  give  it  a  shape  and  eyes  and  feet. 

Then  man  knew  the  sea  from  the  land, 

And  rose  to  behold  the  day-star  shine, 

The  moon  grow  small,  and  the  planets  roll, 

And  travailed  their  ways  to  understand, 

And  measure  the  dateless  years ; 

But  he  quivered  in  being  incomplete, 

Of  teeth  and  claws  and  thunder  afraid, 

With  hunger  and  cold  the  only  dole, 


94  POEMS. 

And  death  the  only  spring  of  tears, 

Until,  in  a  night  by  the  slumbering  sea, 

There  came  on  soundless  wings  to  me 

A  luminous  wondrous  boy. 

He  touched  my  lips,  and  they  spake  in  song. 

He  touched  my  bosom,  it  heaved  in  joy. 

He  filled  my  heart  the  whole  night  long, 

And  I  was  his,  and  he  was  mine. 

The  winds  blew  faintly  a  deep  perfume. 

The  sea  stole  light  from  the  skies  above, 

A  rose-dawn  laughed  through  the  waning  gloom, 

The  whole  world  wakened  to  light  and  Love, 

And  the  mortal  bliss  became  divine." 


"I  am  Love'*  said  the  marble  boy. 

"I  came  when  the  earth  was  young, 

From  beyond  the  verge  of  the  outmost  stars 

In  myriad  rosaries  outflung — 

A  winged  ray  from  the  breast  of  Him, 

The  Glory  and  the  One, 

In  whose  great  light  the  suns  are  dim, 

In  whose  wide  webs  the  cycles  run. 

I  came  aflame  through  the  heavy  air 

To  life  that  blindly  multiplied, 

And  in  unending  struggle  wrought. 

A  gift  I  bare, 

And  a  balm  I  brought: — 

A  tender  quickening  to  the  heart ; 

A  lift  and  glow  to  human  thought, 

Until  desire  was  deified; 


POEMS.  95 

A  glance  that  flashed  from  eye  to  eye,  and  saw 

The  marvel  of  the  Beautiful  anigh 

Where  force  and  need  alone  had  been  the  law; 

A  subtle  fire  that  ran  the  whole  earth  through, 

And  leaped  the  spaces  that  held  men  apart, 

And  gave  great  heavenly  visions  to  their  view 

And  longings  that  go  roaming  thro'  the  sky. 

Winging  the  ether  so,  mine  eyes  first  fell 

On  Psyche  in  a  darksome  dell ; 

And  once  we  had  met  in  the  first  long  kiss, 

The  night  around  gleamed  silvery  gray  ; 

The  birds  fled  piping  the  news  to  tell  ; 

Delight  rose  running  to  meet  the  day 

In  bliss, 

And  the  Muses  nine  and  the  Graces  three, 

And  the  harps  of  the  wind  and  the  drums  of  the  sea 

Made  Love's  own  fervid  melody 

On  a  sunny  morn  in  Arcady. 

My  red  flag  waved  in  the  sinking  sun, 

And  the  heart  o:f  the  world  to  Love  was  won ; 

And  since  and  ever  I  tell  you  this : — 

To  every  child  of  the  human  race, 

Some  morn,  some  day  I  have  shown  my  face" 

'Mong  the  dim,  white  forms,  lo  a  rising  glow, 
And  the  sightless  faces  seemed  to  know 
That  a  god  had  spoken  from  out  the  stone; 
For  from  lips  long  cold  came  warm  soft  cries : — 
"I  saw  your  blest  face  in  a  city  street." 
"You   laughed   on   me,   Love,    from  a   rose   full 
blown." 


96  POEMS. 

"I  touched  your  brow  by  the  riverside." 

"I  found  you  under  the  Spanish  moon," 

"You  came,  Dio  mio,  from  Italy's  skies" 

"I  looked  in  your  eyes,  and  you  smiled,  aroon" 

"The  treasure  at  foot  of  my  rainbow,  you  are" 

"I  heard  your  call  by  the  Norseland's  tide" 

"I  felt  your  breath  as  we  gazed  on  a  star." 

But  down  the  Maid  and  the  Lover  stepped, 

And  over  the  seaward  path  passed  on. 

The  dimmed  shades  moaned,  and  the  cold  dew  wept 

For  Life  and  Love  that  were  gone. 


THE  LOVE  OF  DONALD  NAIR. 

I  would  I  were  near  to  my  ain  love, 

As  she  spins  the  wool  sae  fine ; 

I  would  I  could  stan'  by  the  byreside, 

As  she's  drivin'  hame  the  kine: 

But  wae's  me,  out  on  the  moor  it's  dark, 

The  wind  blaws  cauld  off  sea, 
An'  what  has  a  man  to  do  wi'  love 
When  he's  left  alone  to  dee? 

When's  deein'  alone,  an'  wounded  sair, 
An'  her  brother  he  dealt  the  blow 

To  me  wha  wadna  hae  hurt  a  hair 
Of  her  kinsmen,  high  or  low? 


POEMS.  97 

But  ah,  I  would  I  were  near  my  love, 

To  see  her  on  bended  knee, 
Prayin'  for  mother  an'  brother  an'  a' 

Afore  I  turn  an'  dee. 

I  would  I  could  see  my  love  asleep, 

Not  drowsy  wi'  death  like  me, 
But  dreamin'  saft  in  a  dream  sae  sweet 

Of  my  love  that  ne'er  can  be; 

For  ah,  my  bluid's  on  the  tall,  wet  grass, 
An'  the  lock  of  her  hair's  dyed  red, 

An'  what  is  love  when  the  eyes  gang  blind, 
An'  what  when  a  man  is  dead  ? 

I  could  hae  killed  him,  her  brother,  here ; 

Yet  I  wadna  turn  an'  flee. 
He  thocht  I  came  courtin'  the  lass  he  wooed : 
The  secret  will  dee  wi'  me. 

O  love,  my  ain,  my  winsome  love, 

I'd  ask  but  your  face  to  see 
As  it  laughs  on  your  brother  tomorrow  morn, 
To  see  it  afore  I  dee. 


98  POEMS. 

YOU  OF  THE  MORNING  HOUR. 

With  deep  Amen  are  closed  the  funeral  rites: 
The  wreathing  incense  lingers  on  the  air, 
A  mist  of  sorrow  and  a  floating  prayer 
That  dims  the  altar's  starry  lights. 

Slowly  the  coffin  'neath  its  crest  of  flowers, 

Two  white-robed  nuns  before, 

Is  borne  to  trembling  music  down  the  aisle; 

And  following,  as  loath  to  go, 

Even  to  steps  so  slow, 

The  mourners  in  defile — 

The  white-haired  woman  whom  her  grief  devours, 

The  children  bowed  and  weeping  sore 

The  friend,  the  father  they  will  see  no  more. 

And  we  the  watchers,  grey  of  head, 

Lifelong  companions  o'f  the  man  here  dead, 

Gaze  sorrowing  through  backward  glance  of  years, 

And  finding  ever  lonely  founts  of  fears 

In  silent  reaches  of  the  past. 

Sudden  I  catch  my  breath  aghast, 

And  ask  myself  what  place 

In  such  procession  finds  yon  smiling  face? 

Scarce  more  than  boy,  with  sunlit  hair 

And  eyes  of  laughing  blue, 

Of  buoyant  stride  and  gesture  debonnair, 

A  red  rose  in  his  coat  so  gay  of  hue. 

What  does  he  there, 

With  joy  of  raptured  hours  upon  his  brow, 

In  startling  light  from  suns  long  gone? 


POEMS.  99 

Why  shine  they  on  his  forehead  here  and  now, 
The  while  the  dead  man's  coffin  passes  slowly  on? 

Surely  I  know,  I've  seen — 

Oh,  no :  the  like  it  never  could  have  been — 

What  smile  familiar  on  his  lips — 

His  parted  lips,  as  if  some  song 

Of  joyous  lilting  and  o'f  merry  quips 

Were  fain  to  issue  clear  and  strong? 

Yea,  glad  strains  ring  of  carols  wild,  profane, 

That  match  the  laughter  of  his  eyes, 

Strange  discord  making  with  the  sobs  and  sighs 

From  hearts  here  wrung  in  bitter  pain. 

They  mingle  with  the  dead-chant  in  mine  ear, 
Across  the  thrilling  of  the  organ's  roll: 

0  stripling  of  the  singing  soul, 
Your  place  is  far  from  here ! 

Ay,  somewhere  once,  far  off  in  time, 
When  twin  were  love  and  joy, 
And  living  was  a  silver  rhyme, 

1  knew  you,  boy,  care-free  and  debonnair; 
And  he  whose  clay  you  follow  knew 
Your  laughing  heart,  your  blue  eyes  rare, 
You  of  the  morning  hour, 

You  of  the  blood-red  flow'r. 

And  all  might  read  the  darling  hope 

That  was  your  lotte-star  then, 

Ere  passifoti  fired  you,  and  the  rocky  slope, 

Ambition,  tempted  you  beyond  your  ken : 


100  POEMS. 

When  love  first  dawned  on  you  in  flame, 
And  temple  shrines  of  fame, 
Mid  garden  spaces  hedged  by  living  truth, 
Lay  fair  before  you,  eager  to  explore — 

Oh  God,  it  is  my  golden,  jocund  youth 
Goes  out  there  by  the  dead  man  at  the  door. 


THE  PEOPLE  OF  SHADOW  STREET. 

Ah,  long  and  narrow  is  Shadow  Street, 
Where  the  sunlight  never  can  fall; 

Whose  mile  after  mile  can  but  repeat 

The  crumbling  house  and  the  broken  wall; 

The  marsh  beyond  and  the  cypress  trees — 
A  misty  veil  and  a  sombre  pall. 

Over  its  lichened  pavements,  see 
The  people  of  Shadow  Street  creep, 

They  seem  so  like  unto  you  and  me, 
As  they  stare  or  frown  or  weep ; 

But  they're  something  more  or  something  less, 
And  their  eyes  are  dim  as  with  sleep. 

They  think  they  are  live  and  wide  awake, 
They  are  busy  with  dreams  long  dead. 

Their  hurrying  feet  no  progress  make, 
And  their  clocks  tell  time  that  has  fled. 

They  are  planning  the  triumphs  of  yesterday, 
They  are  coining  the  words  long  said. 


POEMS.  101 

They  toil  and  moil,  they  rhyme  and  they  sing; 

But  none  of  the  other  takes  heed. 
Their  hopes  are  ravens  on  weary  wing 

That  out  of  their  hearts  they  feed : 
Each  man  and  woman  in  twilight  blur 

Clasps  tightly  a  mildewed  weed. 

This  corner  house  on  the  Market  Square 
Is  the  place  where  they  first  abide. 

They  climb  one  morn  up  its  creaking  stair, 
And  by  dusk  steal  out  at  the  side. 

They  come,  pushed  out  of  the  pulsing  town, 
And  so  into  Shadow  Street  glide. 

From  house  after  house,  from  day  to  day, 
They  move  when  the  night  has  paled; 

Thin  and  grizzled  and  farther  away, 
And  by  many  a  pang  assailed. 

They  pass  at  last  'neath  the  cypress  trees, 
And  they  never  know  they  have  failed. 


102  POEMS. 

AN  EASTER  BRIDE. 

A  bride,  sweet  Lord,  on  this  Easter  morn! 

A  pale,  a  breathless  bride, 
Here  waits  thee,  Christ  of  the  Cross  and  Thorn, 

While  bells  ring  far  and  wide. 

They  chime  for  the  brides  of  Earth,  O  Lord, 
Whose  hearts  are  thrilled  with  cheer, 

For  her  is  throbbing  an  angel's  chord — 
Thy  fair  dead  bride  that's  here. 

Bright  sunbeams  dapple  her  bridal  shroud, 

They  flit  with  glad  unrest, 
Now  over  the  cold  face  saintly  browed, 

Now  over  the  pulseless  breast. 

No  lily  that  nods  in  that  Easter  light 

More  pure  than  she  who  lies 
In  her  sunlit  robe  of  snowy  white 

With  dark-lashed,  calm,  closed  eyes. 

I  have  but  closed  them  a  moment's  space, 

Folding  her  poor,  white  hands, 
Brushing  stray  raven  locks  from  her  face, 

And  stand  as  Sorrow  stands. 

Last  night  I  saw  by  the  taper's  ray 

Her  eyes  of  liquid  brown 
Gleam  longing  as  praying  the  Easter  day 

Would  bring  the  bridal  crown. 

I  watched  her  dream  as  the  lingering  dawn 

Came  gray  and  bleak  and  cold, 
Black  tresses  back  from  the  white  face  drawn- 

Her  face  of  purest  mold, 


POEMS.  103 

Too  lovely,  Lord,  for  a  mortal's  bliss, 

Too  sweet  to  soil  with  tears, 
Yea  to  be  flecked  with  a  bridegroom's  kiss 

Or  traced  with  lines  o'f  years. 

Was  it  prayer  or  pain  on  her  trembling  lip 

As  morn  at  last  burned  red, 
When  I  saw  the  clasped  hands  part  and  slip, 

And  bowed  her  perfect  head? 

Over  my  bosom  her  dark  hair  strayed, 

Ever  her  face  more  wan, 
Till  the  Easter  Sun  on  the  waters  played, 

And  night  from  the  world  had  gone. 

Faint  tinklings  of  harps  on  the  blithe  air  thrill, 

The  portals  have  opened  wide ; 
She  dreams,  she  sleeps  in  a  sleep  that  is  still, 

God's  breathless,  Easter  bride. 


THE  VISION  OF  ERTOGRUHL. 

From  the  play  of  "The  Prince  of  India."— Paraphrase. 

The  Warrior  Ertogruhl, 
Sheik  of  his  tribe  of  men  who  dare, 
Started  a  gray  wolf  in  the  morning  cool, 
And  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain  bare, 
Slew  him  at  set  of  sun. 


104  POEMS. 

And  as  the  sheik  upon  the  topmost  peak 
Sat  resting  for  a  breathing  space, 
While  all  the  west  went  red  as  fire, 
El  Jann,  the  monster  jinn  of  Solomon, 
Rose  in  a  storm-cloud  black  and  dire, 
And  from  its  heart  of  darkness  cried: — 
"Sheik  Ertogruhl,  give  place, 
For  I  would  sit  by  thee." 

"Make  thyself  small  if  thou'dst  find  room, 

If  thou'dst  find  place," 
Said  dauntless  Ertogruhl, 

When,  with  a  whirr  of  wings  from  out  the  gloom, 
A  man  sat  near  him,  face  to  face. 
"This  is  the  home  of  eagles"  smiled  El  Jann. 
"I've  slain  a  wolf  here"  answered  Ertogruhl. 
"Not  so"  replied  El  Jann  "thou  art  beguiled. 
No  carcass  anywhere  I  see." 
"I've  slain  a  wolf"  low  growled  the  sheik, 
"And  tho'  mine  eyes  in  vain  the  carcass  seek, 
I'll  try  my  scimetar  on  thee." 
Then,  with  a  swish  of  his  ringing  blade, 
He  cleft  the  man — head,  body  to  the  rock, 
But  still  El  Jann  sat  heedless  of  the  shock, 
Still  sat  and  smiled. 
"Again"  he  said  "thou  art  beguiled. 
I  was  the  wolf ;  I  was  the  man, 
And  still  am  free  of  scar; 
For  I  am  a  thought  of  Allah's,  the  Most  High, 
The  Lord  of  Near  and  Far, 
And  'tis  not  written  that  His  thoughts  shall  die. 
But,  as  thou'rt  brave,  see  what  hath  Allah  willed." 


POEMS.  105 

Then,  as  he  spoke,  he  lightly  spilled 
A  tiny  seed  upon  the  rocky  ground. 
Lo,  as  they  gazed,  a  waxen  shoot  appeared, 
That  soon  grew  upward  like  a  lily  tall. 
Then,  like  a  spear-shaft  straightway  it  upreared, 
And,  broadening,  rising  over  all, 
And  flinging  leafy  arms  around, 
That  touched  all  corners  of  the  east  and  west — 
The  Moslem  tree  in  bloom  unfurled — 
With  underneath  its  branches  room  and  rest 
And  peace  for  all  the  peoples  of  the  world. 
Lo !  what  Allah  willed ! 

Allah  il  Allah! 


IN  THE  DARKENED  WORLD. 

So  that's  what  you  call  good  news  for  me, 

Young  Janet  who  loves  me  so? 
For  your  poor  blind  grandmother  sitting  here 

While  the  world  goes  to  and  fro? 

I'll  try  to  be  glad,  if  it  gladdens  you,  dear, 

To  move  to  the  wonderful  town, 
And  live  out  my  life  in  your  father's  house 

When  they  tear  the  homestead  down. 

They're  to  lay  the  rails  through  the  heart  of  this 
house  ? 

And  thousands  they'll  have  to  pay? 
They'll  lay  the  rails,  honey,  across  my  heart. 

Their  thousands  I'd  give  to  stay. 


106  POEMS. 

For  my  little  world  is  here,  sweet  child, 

Cradle  and  home  and  bier  ; 
And  my  step  is  sure  and  I  know  each  nook, 

And  each  has  a  memory  here. 

I  shall  try  anew  in  my  son's  grand  house: 

The  blind  are  quick  to  learn. 
But  when  the  blind  are  old,  it  is  love 

Must  help  at  every  turn. 

You  will  lead  me  ?    Ay,  I  am  sure  you  will : 

But  think  what  I'll  leave  behind, 
Where  the  Lord  has  led  me  with  glints  of  love, 

And  I  scarce  have  known  I'm  blind. 

For  nothing  can  change  in  my  sightless  land : 

It  is  fenced  with  love  around. 
Love  rises  and  glows  with  the  morning  sun : 

Love  grows  in  the  cool,  damp  ground. 

My  little  world  goes  up  to  the  hills 

That  are  heaving  over  there : 
It  follows  the  river  down  to  the  gorge : 

Its  skies  are  blue  and  fair. 

It  is  there  at  the  open  door,  my  Ralph, 

My  husband  smiling  stands, 
His  kind  brown  eyes  bent  on  my  face, 

My  face  held  in  his  hands. 

It  is  here  by  the  window,  James,  my  son, 
Sits  list'ning  to  fairy  tales, 


POEMS.  107 

While  his  father  smokes  in  the  easy  chair, 
And  his  kind  smile  never  fails. 

Over  here  it  is  that  my  little  Sue 

Lies  wax-like,  white  and  cold. 
She  was  only  five  when  she  left  us,  dear, 

And  her  hair  was  a  shower  of  gold. 

I  can  find  my  way  to  the  garden  gate, 
And  my  heart  beats  proud  and  high 

And  I  see  my  Ralph  with  his  sword  in  hand 
As  his  regiment  marches  by. 

It  was  under  the  maples  when  letters  came, 

I  read  of  my  Ralph's  hard  fight 
In  the  Southern  land,  for  the  Union  cause — 

The  cause  of  his  God  and  Right. 

It  was  there  the  postmaster  came  in  May — 

The  apple-trees  white  as  foam — 
To  "break  the  news,"  as  he  said,  to  me 

That  Ralph  would  never  come  home. 

There  day  by  day  I  sat  in  a  daze, 

Waiting  in  rain  or  shine, 
Till  lightning  struck  thro'  the  heart  of  the  tree, 

As  the  Lord  had  riven  mine. 

And  here  when  I  woke  in  a  darkened  world, 

And  knew  that  my  grief  was  sin, 
God  gave  me  my  small  world  back  again, 

And  his  light  stole  gently  in. 


108  POEMS. 

I  can  stand  in  the  grass  on  the  little  lawn, 

And  know  where  the  dusty  road 
Runs  rising  over  the  hilltop  green 

To  my  dear  ones'  last  abode — 

Where  I  might  follow  and  know  each  step 

To  the  headstones  on  the  West, 
Where  willows  and  hemlock  droop  like  me, 

And  every  mound  says  "rest." 

Can  I  take  this  small  world  with  me,  dear, 

To  the  City's  heart  of  stone, 
Where  I  cannot  touch  the  things  they  touched 

And  the  soul  must  strive  alone  ? 

One  life  may  garner  one  sheaf  o'f  joy: 

One  heart  feel  one  great  pain: 
And  the  days  that  come  and  the  nights  that  go, 

For  all  beside  are  vain. 


CLYTIA'S  LAMENT  TO  APOLLO. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  ne'er  again,  when  fade  the  eves, 
Loved  Cynthius,  come  soul-trembling  to  my  joy, 
'Till   'raptured   stars   shall  steal  out  on  the  skies 
To  hear  the  am'rous  lay  thy  soft  lute  weaves, 
And  Hesper's  wand'ring  perfumes  gath'ring  cloy 
The  love-sick  air  with  sweetness  of  their  breath, 
Sweetness  that  ecstacies  the  heart  to  death? 


POEMS.  109 

What  was  Assyria's  daughter  to  thy  love, 
O,  Cynthius  sweet,  that  I'd  not  dared  to  be  ? 
What  lackedst  thou,  darling,  that  I  did  not  fling 
To  thee  as  freely  as  the  young  winds  rove? 
Can  soulless  gems  allure  a  god  like  thee? 
Or  gold  decide  in  heaven  all  human  odds  ? 
Is  constancy  a  crime  among  the  gods? 

Oh,  how  I  loved,  my  now  dark  rage  can  tell 

That  when  full  surfeited  with  lip-delights, 

Thou  vanish'dst  on  the  downy  wings  of  air 

'Neath  Leucothea's  darkly  woven  spell, 

And  languished  near  her  through  the  sultry  nights, 

In  false  caressings  of  her  waving  hair, 

And  left  my  anguish  darken  to  despair. 

When  came  the  sluggard  morn  adown  the  hills, 
I  called  my  slaves :  ''Ho !  swift  yon  galley  man ; 
Let  loose  the  sail,  and  if  the  brave  wind  fail, 
Toil  at  the  oars  till  toiling  tires  and  kills, 
For  life  is  nought  to  my  hate-blazing  scan; 
Tell  Orchamus,  the  king,  with  tongue  of  flame, 
What  Clytia  knows  of  Leucothea's  shame." 

Then  on  they  sped,  O  Cynthius,  to  her  sire, 
And  scorched  his  heart  with  tellings  of  her  sin, 
Till  he  in  anger  sought  her  as  she  slept 
Close-folded  to  thy  heart  of  pulsing  fire, 
Then  steeped  his  sword  her  silver  bosom  in, 
And  swift  her  corse  to  earth's  embraces  gave, 
And  laid  the  stone  of  silence  on  her  grave. 


110  POEMS. 

At  first  thy  tears  were  shed  for  this  her  doom, 
And  then  thou  dropp'dst  ambrosia  where  she  lay 
And  pearly  nectar  from  the  cups  of  heaven ; 
Yet  couldst  thou  not  unseal  her  eyes  from  gloom, 
But  called  her  forth,  a  tree,  to  glad  the  day, 
Whose  incense  sweet  might  greet  thee  in  the  skies, 
And  wake  mad  mem'ries  of  her  melting  eyes. 

I,  then,  all  joyed  that  thou  wert  mine  alone, 
Lay  on  my  perfumed  couch  and  sipped  o'f  wine, 
And  made  my  minstrels  sing  old  Paphian  strains 
To  Venus  on  her  pleasure-builded  throne; 
But  still  thou  earnest  not  with  the  day's  decline ; 
The  moon  gazed  on  me,  and  the  shadows  cried : 
"Where  is  thy  God?"     "Gone!  gone!"  the  night 
replied. 

At  last  thou  earnest,  when  I  had  worn  away 
My  heart  and  hopes  with  longings  for  thy  face  ; 
And  then  thou  earnest,  not  kissing  as  of  old, 
But  masked  in  clouds  as  pall  the  bier  of  day, 
To  hide  from  me  thy  glowing  pristine  grace, 
And  bade  me  thus,  a  sun-flower,  gaze  in  pain 
Upon  thy  lips  I  ne'er  should  press  again. 

And  now  where  lovers  whisp'ring  rove,  love-bound, 
Thou  comest,  lost  Phoebus !  near  no  more  to  me  ; 
And  though  I  turn  to  thee  till  thou  art  gone, 
Responseless,  on  thy  trackless,  weary  round, 
Below  the  west,  beyond  the  Aegean  sea, 
I  rest  unmourned,  and  bloom  and  fade  with  years, 
While  but  sad  even  soothes  my  cheeks  with  tears. 


POEMS.  in 


TANNHAUSER. 

There  in  the  garden  of  pleasure  she  lies, 

My  fond  Aphrodite,  and  weeps 
For  the  lover  who  fled  from  the  light  of  her  eyes, 

For  the  joy  that  has  sunk  in  the  deeps. 

What  glory  of  white  fair  body  she  turns 
To  the  blossoms  that  gem  her  bow'r, 

What  lightning  of  love  in  her  wide  breast  burns, 
And  smote  me  it  is  but  an  hour ! 

I've  left  her  to  wail,  and  my  soul  is  wrung 

With  an  anguish  beyond  all  pray'r. 
Where  I  clung  to  her,  lo,  has  my  dark  wrong  clung, 

Like  a  snake  at  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

O  rescuing  angel,  who  guidest  my  feet, 

Is  her  sin  too  great  for  shrift? 
Can  joy  of  the  pure  with  my  dead  joys  meet, 

And  thought  of  the  dead  joys  drift? 

What  say  ye  now  to  me,  gods  and  men, 

Must  I  on  through  the  desert  fare, 
And  starve  with  a  hunger  beyond  my  ken, 

Or  go  back  to  my  Venus  there  ? 

What  sayest  thou,  O  Epicurus,  thou 

The  father  of  fond  delights? 
What  sayest  thou,  Zeno,  the  stern  of  brow, 

Whom  pain  nor  scorn  affrights  ? 


POEMS. 


O  sweet  Lord  Christ,  for  me  what  word 

Hast  thou  shaped  to  cheer  my  way  ? 
O  Mahound,  have  thy  lips  in  laughter  stirred 

At  my  cry  in  the  waning  day? 

Not  any  o'f  these  whom  we  fain  invoke 

Has  said  to  me  live  or  die. 
Not  a  sign  from  them  all.    Like  a  wreath  of  smoke 

They  faint  in  the  blue  of  the  sky. 

Oh,  over  in  Paradise  all  is  clear  : 

There  are  flowers  and  valleys  green, 

And  its  gods  and  spirits  are  hovering  near, 
And  lilies  are  nodding  between. 

And  she  is  there,  and  the  air  is  sweet 
With  caressing  her  warm  white  limbs, 

And  the  doves  that  love  her  in  circles  meet, 
And  coo  her  their  passionate  hymns. 

O  sweet  Lord  help  me  to  face  the  dark 

Where  her  eyes  no  longer  shine, 
O  sweet  Lord,  out  of  thy  breast  a  spark 

That  will  slay  the  chill  in  mine. 

For  the  angel  who  guides  me  never  told 

How  the  mad  desire  would  cling, 
How  cold  the  notes  of  his  harp  of  gold, 

How  coldly  the  seraphim  sing. 


GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 


A  STUDY  IN  THE  FLESH. 

A  calm  white  face,  black  eyes  serene, 

Dark  tresses  braided  in  a  coronal, 
Red  lips  pressed  close  till  scarce  the  red  is  seen, 
Is  this,  you  ask,  the  picture  of  a  queen? 

There  seated,  one  white  hand  upon  the  chair, 

The  other  stretched  atow'rd  two  men  who  kneel, 
And  raise  it  as  one  lifts  a  jewel  rare. 
If  not  a  queen,  she's  surely  proud  and  fair. 

Aye,  proud  and  fair,  but  in  this  House  of  Pain, 

A  needle  broken  in  her  finger-tip, 
That  needs  the  knife  to  cut  away  its  bane, 
She  scarce  will  do  with  "queen"  for  a  refrain. 

Soon  skill  has  plucked  the  steel  away  with  steel, 

And  she,  who  winced  not,  smileless  passes  forth. 
She  breathes  no  thanks,  yet  they  feel  thanked  who 

kneel. 
Such  majesty  must  sure  have  royal  seal. 

O  dark-eyed  Woman,  whereunto  you  go, 

There  must  you  reign  unquestioned  as  a  queen 
Who  kindles  rev'rence  without  pomp  or  show ; 
But  what  your  kingdom,  which  of  us  shall  know  ? 

115 


116  GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 

Nor  silk  attire,  nor  diamond-studded  gold 

May  flash  or  rustle  on  your  queenly  breast, 
But  yours  the  fire  was  snatched  from  Heaven  of  old, 
And  yours  the  clay  which  but  the  great  gods  mould. 

The  fire  that  smoldered  in  Semiramis, 

The  form  that  Egypt's  Cleopatra  wore, 
The  lips  that  ransomed  empires  with  a  kiss — 
Red  lips  that  quivered  not  at  pain  or  bliss — 

All  these  are  hers  who  silent  went  her  way 

Thro'  city  streets  from  out  the  House  of  Pain — 
A  star  from  that  far  wonderland  astray 
Where  beauty  makes  the  morn  and  night  and  day. 


THE  SECOND  MARRIAGE. 

Her  soft  brown  eyes  upgazing  to  his  face, 
As  thro'  the  aisle's  one  sunlight  shaft  they  pass 

With  measured  pace, 
He,  smiling  at  the  lips  but  not  the  eyes 
That  seem  to  gaze  upon  some  form  that  flies 

Far-off,  cloud- wrapped,  alas ! 

"He  is  too  young  to  live  alone,"  we  hear, 
'This  woman's  fair  as  was  the  first,  and  then 

She's  dead  a  year." 

Ah  true,  she's  lain  twelve  months  beneath  the  clay, 
But  oh,  poor  ghost,  she  only  dies  today, 

Yea,  with  the  priest's  Amen. 


GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 

"The  new  wife  clings  as  fondly  as  the  old." 
"There's  love  in  brown  eyes  as  there  was  in  blue." 

"The  grave  is  cold." 

"The  elm,  you  know,  looks  bare  without  a  vine." 
But  ah,  Death  makes,  where  two  souls  intertwine, 

No  void  place  for  the  new. 

"Yet  this  his  first  true  flower  of  love  may  be," 
Oh,  on  the  dead  wife's  grave  why  pour  out  gall? 

Yet,  bitterly 

I'll  say:    The  dead  is  gone  forever  now, 
And  better  love  should  garland  this  young  brow 

Than  life  be  bloomless  all. 

Laughter  and  bells  ring  o'er  the  bridal  train, 
But  thro'  them  sigh  upon  the  love-tuned  ear, 

Low  tones  of  pain. 

Oh,  haste  and  gaze  into  mine  eyes,  my  wife, 
Till  soul  tells  soul  that  love  is  love  for  life, 

And  life  begins  but  here. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Would  I  might  sit  at  thy  feet,  my  sweet, 

And  on  canvas  trace 
In  a  glow  of  color  thy  form  and  face. 

As  blue  as  the  blue  above,  my  love, 

Thy  rapturous  eyes 
Uplifted,  smiling  to  laughing  skies. 


118  GLINTS   OF  LIFE. 

Thy  lips — red  rose  to  a  red  rose  wed 

'Neath  the  dews  of  June — 
Half-parted,  thrilled  with  a  ravishing  tune. 

And  light  on  white  brow  and  brown  hair  as  fair 

As  dawns  on  the  breast 
Of  the  hills  in  Heaven  before  the  Blest. 

Thy  shell-pink  fingers  should  twined  enshrine 

A  passion-flow'r  full-blown, 
Held  close  to  thy  heart  of  deep  love,  my  own — 

To  thy  heart  to  whose  every  beat,  my  sweet, 

May  my  love  keep  time, 
Like  a  sweet  song  linked  to  a  sweeter  rhyme. 


THE  LOVING  CUP. 

[On  a  coming  of  age  at  Merriewold.] 

Within  the  silver  bowl  behold 
The  golden  vintage  of  all  friendly  cheer, 
Fresh  from  the  wine-press  of  our  Merriewold, 
And  not  a  drop  therein  but  sparkles  clear 
With  fairest  wish  your  fortune  to  unfold. 

Thus  brimming  o'er  lift  up  the  Cup, 

And  pledge  one  draught  unto  the  winds  of  Fate, 

As  here  at  manhood's  open  door  you  stand 

With  love  and  faith  on  either  hand, 

While  out  beyond  life's  storms  and  battles  wait. 


GLINTS  OF  LIFE.  119 

For  you  the  East  was  wedded  to  the  West, 
And  lived  in  love  before  an  altar  fire. 
The  soul  of  Nippon  from  your  sire 
Has  filled  you  with  an  eager  flame: 
Columbia's  spirit  in  your  mother's  breast 
Has  fed  you  fondly  from  the  founts  of  truth, 
And  round  your  cradle  all  the  good  gods  came 
To  nurture  and  fulfill  your  youth. 


On,  then,  with  headlong  courage  of  the  boy 
Lit  by  the  steady  purpose  of  the  man. 
Before  you  lie  the  world's  wide  fields  to  scan — 
The  path  of  hope  to  trip  along  in  joy, 
The  road  of  toil  to  trudge  with  tireless  feet, 
The  gates  of  disillusion  to  be  passed, 
The  barriers  where  foes  rise  up  to  meet, 
The  combats  where  defeat  awaits  at  last: 
But  onward  still  up  beetling  rocky  heights, 
Thro'  weary  days  and  sleepless  nights, 
Facing  at  length  the  rising  sun, 
Success  achieved  and  triumph  won. 


So,  as  you  quaff  again  our  wine  of  love, 
And  leave  the  cup,  and  gird  you  with  the  sword, 
And  forth  unto  the  battle  gladly  move, 
Chrysmed  as  with  blessings  here  outpoured, 
Remember,  ere  your  blade  you  draw, 
The  brow  of  Justice  and  the  lips  of  Law, 


120  GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 

Well  may  Ambition  lure  along  the  bold, 
Holding  achievements  forth  to  clasp, 
With  issues  and  contendings  manifold. 
May  this  brave  spirit  in  your  heart  be  blent 
With  roadside  breathings  of  content, 
When  for  a  spell  the  sword  aside  is  laid, 
And  Fortune  flings  reward  within  your  grasp, 
And  lilts  awhile  the  lay  of  your  desire — 
Just  as  in  waving  woods  of  Merriewold, 
Where  pine  and  maple  spread  a  boon  of  shade, 
Tho'  all  their  crests  unto  the  sky  aspire. 


And  know  that  love  is  throbbing  at  life's  core 
For  evermore. 


THE  CHALICE  OF  TEARS. 

"0  wizard,  canst  tell  if  my  lover  is  true, 

For  he  is  aivay,  away?" 
"This  chalice,  maid,  hold  where  the  light  streams 

through ; 
If  ever  it  glows  with  a  blood-red  hue, 

His  love's  as  the  winds  that  stray ; 
But  if  it  still  shows  thro'  the  changing  years 
The  crystalline  depths  of  its  gathered  tears, 

His  love,  then,  abides  alway." 


GLINTS  OF  LIFE.  121 

His  love,  then,  abideth!   Rejoice  my  soul! 

"Nay,  maiden,  thyself  must  see. 
The  chalice  for  me  brings  not  joy  or  dole ; 
His  heart  must  be  dead  as  a  burned  out  coal 

Who  sees  all  the  things  to  be. 
The  warmth  of  thy  touch,  as  thou  breath'st  his  name, 
Alone  can  bring  flashing  the  red-blood  flame, 

If  gone  is  his  love  for  thee." 

"A  chalice  of  tears  by  the  love-lorn  shed — 

Nay  take  it  my  lady  fair — 
Hot  tears  that  were  rained  for  the  newly  dead, 
Slow  drops  that  were  drained  when  the  heart  was 
bled, 

The  last  before  dry  despair, 
All  mingled  with  spells  'neath  the  starless  skies" — 
"O  wizard,  I  would  not  believe  mine  eyes 

If  the  blood-red  gleams  were  there!" 


A  NEW  PROMETHEUS. 

What  dole,  what  crime,  what  fate  is  mine, 
That  I  must  toil  and  never  sing? 

Have  all  my  soul-lights  ceased  to  shine  ? 
Is  fancy  frozen  at  the  spring? 

Harsh,  rattling  cares  have  gripped  me  fast, 
And  life  looks  like  a  ledger  leaf — 

Ruled  lines  and  figures  grimly  cast, 
Nought  credited  to  joy  or  grief. 


122  GLINTS   OF  LIFE. 

But  often,  when  the  whirl  and  din 
Are  maddest,  and  the  toil-time  long, 

My  heart  leaps  wild  my  bosom  in 
To  some  short  snatch  of  spirit  song. 

For  hours  it  tunes  the  presses'  whirr, 
And  shapes  the  day's  deeds  to  a  hymn ; 

No  gift  of  incense,  gold  and  myrrh, 
Could  brighten  so  my  pathway  dim. 

Touch,  then,  fair  god,  my  soul  and  lips ; 

Live  coals  of  love  have  made  them  pure ; 
The  chain  that  loose  from  others  slips, 

Drags  me,  and,  yearning,  I  endure. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS. 

Onward !  upward !  'neath  curse  and  blow, 
'Neath  crushing  cross  in  the  darkling  day, 

With  reeling  sense,  bruised  knees  that  know 
The  rocks  and  flints  of  Golgotha's  way. 

Bloody  Thy  steps  ?    They  must  be  trod, 

Sweat  of  Thy  brow?    Thirst  quenched  with  gall? 
Thou,  being  man  who  wouldst  shine  as  God, 

Must  on  tho'  stumbling,  rise  tho'  fall. 


GLINTS  OF  LIFE.  123 

Wouldst  Thou  rebuild  the  Temple  high? 

Up  to  Thy  Calvary  must  Thou  tread, 
Wouldst  Thou  give  life  unto  men  who  die? 

Wear  Thou  the  thorns  upon  Thy  head. 

They'll  nail  Thee  high;  O  tott'ring  Christ, 
They'll  count  Thy  torments,  pain  by  pain. 

To  love,  to  pity  have  not  sufficed : 

By  those  Thou  savest  Thou  shalt  be  slain. 
****** 

Who'd  tread  the  god-won  heights  must  fare 

In  the  piteous  steps  of  the  Crucified : 
The  Cross  is  his  to  lift  and  bear  ; 

The  naked  shame,  the  spear-torn  side. 

And  shall  I  stop  to  count  the  price  ? 

Down-borne  I'll  dare  it.    Onward  till 
I  drag  the  cross  of  my  sacrifice 

To  the  top  of  the  cruel  hill. 


THE  MAKER  OF  MY  LADY'S  LACE. 

My  lady's  old  point  lace 

That  matches  so  her  dainty  grace, 

And  adds  an  airy  charm  to  her 

In  tracery  of  gossamer. — 

Her  lace  has  wrought  a  spell  on  me, 

For  lo,  thereon,  I  gaze,  and  see 


124:  GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 

How  Patience  fair  set  out  to  weave 

What  love  of  beauty  could  conceive, 

And  spun,  as  fast  her  needles  sped, 

A  fairy  dream  in  flaxen  thread ; 

And  how  the  white  ghosts  of  the  flow'rs 

Came  trooping  in  the  dreaming  hours, 

And  danced  in  long  and  waving  line 

For  her  who  wrought  the  fabric  fine ; 

And  how  Dame  Spider  in  the  morn 

Hung  spangled  webs  from  thorn  to  thorn,- 

Along  her  pathway  through  the  wold; 

And  how  the  lacework  on  the  frosted  pane — 

God's  miracle  on  nights  of  cold — 

Was  joy  to  her  till  she  was  fain 

To  hear  the  artist  angels'  harps  of  gold, 

Then  smiling  turn  to  work  again. 


ON  THE  SOUND. 

At  eve  from  the  Pilgrim's  lofty  deck, 

As  we  cleave  through  the  waveless  Sound, 

I  gaze  on  a  hamlet's  spire — a  speck 
Far  over  the  land's  dim  bound. 

I  fancy  I  hear  its  silvery  bell — 
As  from  out  of  the  sunset's  soul — 

Sound  over  the  opaline  sea  to  tell 
Of  a  calm  life's  joy-lit  goal. 


GLINTS   OF  LIFE.  125 

A  yacht  with  its  canvas  and  masts  aglow 

In  crimson  and  gold  of  the  west 
Points  fair  for  the  shore  where  the  bell,  I  know, 

Is  singing  its  song  of  rest. 

0  fair  bark  reaching  for  home  and  cheer, 
With  ripples  aflame  at  thy  prow, 

1  would  that  my  haven  of  life  were  near 
And  lovely  as  thine  is  now ! 

But,  lo !  a  fisher  with  shadowed  sails 
Steers  into  the  north  and  the  night, 

Where  a  dark  cloud  over  the  water  trails 
From  the  sky's  still  starless  height. 

O  brave  bark  driving  on  duty's  track 
Where  it  takes  thee,  shine  or  shade, 

With  thee  goes  my  heart  'neath  the  night  and  rack 
And  the  storm  for  our  work-world  made ! 


LOST. 

In  the  light  of  her  springtide  morn  she  stood, 

A  love-flower  held  to  her  breast, 
And  lightning  was  leaping  through  her  blood, 

And  sore  was  her  heart  distrest. 

"O  flower,"  she  said,  "is  thy  perfume  rare 

To  madden  me  thus  with  pain?" 
"Dear  heart,"  said  the  flower,  "by  Vesper  pray'r 

Thou  wilt  be  merry  again." 


126  GLINTS   OF  LIFE. 

'Thou  art  fair,  O  flow'r ;  but  thy  petals  sting, 

And  the  Vesper  hour  is  gray." 
"Dear  heart,"  said  the  flower,  "ere  Vespers  ring 

Thou  wilt  carol  a  joyous  lay." 

Alas  for  the  flower :  she  flung  it  afar 

Ere  the  light  went  out  of  the  sky. 
It  fell  where  the  briars  and  dank  weeds  are 

That  the  River  of  Death  flows  by. 

And,  clutched  by  foul  hands,  and  tossed  by  wan 
waves, 

The  flower  was  swept  to  the  main ; 
But  ever  in  passing  by  new-made  graves, 

At  her  heart  was  the  oldtime  pain. 


THE  GOLDEN  TEST. 

There  is  no  god  but  gold,  my  son, 
Each  man  but  wins  his  price. 

The  man  who  fails  is  the  man  to  shun 
To  be  poor  the  only  vice. 

What  you  deserve  is  what  you've  won 
Earth's  justice  is  precise. 

The  picture  fails  that  does  not  sell. 

The  poem  none  will  buy 
Comes  not  from  Hippocrene's  well  : 

For  it  the  fount  was  dry. 
Only  the  totterers  hear  the  knell  ; 

Only  the  worthless  die. 


GLINTS   OF  LIFE.  12? 

If,  Poet,  you  have  heavenly  thought, 

Transmute  it  line  by  line 
To  gold  wherewith  the  world  is  bought : 

Then  may  it  truly  shine. 
Unpurchased,  see,  it  counts  for  naught — 

A  pearl  before  the  swine. 


A  WOMAN'S  MYSTERY. 

If  ye  have  hearts,  find  ruth  for  me, 
Ye  who  in  my  gray  eyes  see  desire. 

I  would  hide  it  for  the  dark, 
Where  its  relentless  fire 

Might  smolder  inward,  and  its  mark 
And  sear  no  man  should  wondering  see. 
Oh,  pity  me. 

For  what,  for  whom  the  sheer  light  glows — 
Startling,  starry  in  mine  eyes  of  gray — 

It  would  slay  me  did  you  ask : 
For  when  its  passion-play 

Is  maddest,  and  breaks  down  the  mask 
I'd  lift  to  screen  my  heart's  vain  throes, 
My  pain  who  knows? 

O  dumb  woe  of  the  isolate ! 

Stifled  voice  amid  the  shouting  crowd ! 

I  can  cry  not,  near  or  far. 
Yea,  cannot  tell  aloud 

To  wood  or  sky  or  stream  or  star 
What  stands  beyond  the  rusted  gate 
Fast-locked  by  fate. 


128  GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 

And  ye  might  mock  me  if  I  told. 

Dawn-rays  streaming  out  of  perished  suns 

Were  real  things  beside 
What  wish-wild  thro'  me  runs, 

Lashing  and  trampling  on  my  pride. 
Yet  you'd  see  ruin  touched  with  gold, 
Could  you  behold. 


INSCRIPTIONS. 

PRO  LIBRA  MEA. 

O  Lord  whose  mercy  never  fails, 
Weigh  me  on  thine  eternal  scales, 

And  I  am  naught : 
Yet  load  me  so  with  grace 

Of  deed  and  thought 

That  I  may  look  the  balance  in  the  face, 
To  note  each  day  my  gain  or  loss, 
And  lift  my  heart  or  bear  my  cross. 

ON  A  LAMP  AT  RIO  VISTA. 

Let  there  be  light ! 

And  whereso'er  the  lamp  rays  fall, 

May  sorrows  fly  like  shadows,  and  thro'  all 

Thy  comings  and  thy  goings  day  and  night, 

May  on  thee  shine 

The  joy  that  springs  at  rising  of  the  Sun, 

When  doubt  and  darkness  are  undone, 

And  Faith  and  Hope  arise  on  sudden  wings, 

And  Love  holds  all  things  in  its  glow  divine. 


GLINTS  OP  LIFE.  129 


LITTLE  THINGS. 

Ah,  little  things  that  grow  to  make  life  grievous, 
Vain  little  things — the  frown,  the  quick  word  said, 

Thy  sly-curled  lip — poor  little  things  that  leave  us 
Heart-stung  and  nettled,  turning  pale  and  red ! 

Little  are  we,  poor  moths  of  souls  that  flutter 
Around  in  semi-glooms  and  craving  flame. 

In  our  dim  whirl,  should  lips  the  wound-word  utter, 
Close  them  with  chrysm  of  Love's  all-healing 
name.  \ 

For  Love  lives  not  in  littleness :  it  reaches 
Beyond  all  dreams  of  outspread,  orb-lit  space: 

Yea,  in  the  outer  darkness  it  beseeches 
For  suns,  more  suns  to  glorify  its  face. 


TO  CONSTANCE. 

On  her  wedding  day. 

Of  all  thy  dowered  jewels  none  so  fair 
As  those  that  on  thy  bride-hand  thou  shalt  wear. 
Faith,  Hope  and  Love  illume  the  ring's  pure  gold, 
And  in  the  keeper,  Constancy  behold. 
For  these  are  thine  by  royal  right  of  race 
That  looks  the  past  and  future  in  the  face : 
That  yielded  not  in  hours  of  strain  and  stress, 
That  clearer  shone  in  fortune's  close  caress. 


130  GLINTS   OF  LIFE. 

Lo,  as  thou  kneel'st  will  come  from  out  the  East 
Fair  signs  and  portents  to  thy  wedding  feast : 
The  stars  of  olden  years  will  lend  their  rays, 
The  April  blossoms  of  long-vanished  days, 
Yea,  ev'ry  flow'r  that  to  the  breeze  replies 
And  nods  in  springtime  laughter  to  the  skies — 
Primrose  and  cowslip,  snowdrop,  daffodil — 
Will  waft  their  scents  from  Irish  rath  and  hill  ; 
Pale  moonlight  from  old  Erin's  dim  green  vales, 
And  sunlight  from  her  seas  alive  with  sails. 
Fleet  fairy  fancies  from  her  elfin  throng 
With  echoes  of  her  wind-swept  harp  and  song. 


LAW. 

In  the  extremity  of  love's  deep  dole 

I  cried  for  help  unto  my  soul : — 

"Why  may  another  hold  from  me  the  mate 

Who  should  be  mine  by  every  sign  of  fate?" 

"I  am  not,"  said  my  soul,  "save  as  thou  art. 

Take  heed. 

Behind  thyself  thy  weakness  hides 
When  law  and  longing  stand  at  odds  apart. 
Insistently  the  past  that  in  thee  bides 
Cries  out  against  the  present — 
The  bitter  truth  against  the  wrong  that's  pleasant; 

The  ancient  law  against  the  present  greed. 
The  law  is  called  thy  conscience, 
And  thou  call'st  thy  weakness,  soul." 


GLINTS   OF  LIFE.  131 


CRITICISM. 

With  swelling  breast  I  launch  upon  the  tide 
My  artist  argosies,  and  bid  them  sail, 
So  joy  like  mine  may  greet  them  in  a  gale, 
And  sweep  them  over  radiant  waters  wide : 
But  ragged  cross-waves  rise  to  shock  my  pride : 
Cold  breezes  make  me  wince ;  rude  winds  loud  rail : 
False-friendly   blasts   pierce   through   my   thickest 

mail: 

No  haven  beckons  where  my  ships  may  ride. 
They  mock  the  craft,  the  flag,  the  sails,  the  course; 
Where  I  am  steering  not,  they  bid  me  steer, 
Till   Faint   Heart   whispers  me   "Throw  up  your 

hands, 

And  meet  the  rigor  of  your  fate  perforce." 
But  Love  cries  "Hold  fast"  smiling  through  a  tear. 
Yea,  it  is  only  love  that  understands. 


132  GLINTS  OP  LIFE. 

CUMPLEANOS. 

July  31.  August  3. 

Three  steps  between  the  milestones  of  our  years, 
Yea,  scarce  a  heartbeat  in  the  Larger  Time 
That  shrinks  our  cycles  to  a  single  hour, 
And  spans  a  lifetime  with  an  inch  of  thread 
Shorn  from  the  loom  of  the  eternities ! 

Be't  ours  to  tread  the  path  from  stone  to  stone, 
With  what  high  soul,  what  courage  men  may  win. 
Ours  not  to  count  the  shards  beneath  our  feet, 
But  gladden  with  the  sun  o'er  land  and  sea, 
And  glory  in  the  splendor  of  the  stars, 
And  when  the  night  falls  black  with  wind  and  rain, — 
Blithe  singing  to  each  other  as  we  go — 
Walk  by  the  lamps  of  love  and  trust  till  dawn 
Comes  like  a  flaming  angel  o'er  the  hills. 


DREAMS. 

Deep  from  the  sleep-masked  soul  a  ray 
Steals  forth  of  buried  times, 

And  blurred  by  changings  of  to-day 
Pale  Mem'ry  wakes  her  chimes. 

They  sound  with  silver  voices  sweet, 
And  all  her  din>browed  throng 

Moves  softly  and  with  soundless  feet 
Their  olden  path  along. 


GLINTS  OF  LIFE.  133 

Adown  dead  faces  course  hot  tears 

That  burn  upon  the  cheek, 
And,  brimming  with  the  loves  of  years, 

Their  lips  all  trembling  speak. 

Till  fair  and  light  doth  Fancy  sweep, 

With  thousand  sprites  and  wiles, 
That,  mingling,  twirl  in  magic  leap 

Thro'  Memory's  grave  denies. 

Flow'rs  bloom  supernal  'neath  their  tread ; 

Lute  tinklings  fill  the  trees  ; 
The  gorgeous  sun  shines  golden  red, 

And  perfumes  clasp  the  breeze. 

Then  Passion,  with  her  blazing  mien, 

And  earnest,  panting  crew, 
Steps  in  to  dance  the  lines  between, 

And  pulse  the  heart-strings  through. 

Sudden,  amid  its  shadow-bliss 

A  shroud  o'er  all's  unfurled, 
And  Time,  with  envious,  serpent  hiss 

Awakes  us  to  the  world. 

And  are  these  unrealities — 

Each  form  and  lucent  beam 
That  fled  but  as  existence  flees  ? 

Are  these  or  life — a  dream? 

For  is't  not  even  thus  as  sweeps 

Life's  ship  o'er  waters  blind, 
That  Passion  glares  and  Mem'ry  weeps 

'Mid  Fancy's  sons  of  wind  ? 


134  GLINTS  OF  LIFE. 

What  then's  this  spirit-life  that  flies, 
While  visioned  phantasms  roll? 

Sees  it  but  as  thro'  others'  eyes  ? 
Is  it  a  deeper  soul? 

We'll  know  not  till  uplifts  the  dark, 
And  Life  and  Dreams  shall  flee ; 

For  kindred  waves  float  each  frail  bark- 
Passion,  Fancy,  Memory. 


CARPE  DIEM. 

Oh,  if  your  tongue  would  tell  what  in  your  eyes 

I  dream  I  see  when  luminously  large 

They  meet  my  gaze,  and  on  your  cheek  a  flush 

Glows  mantling  for  a  moment  as  a  sign ; 

Your  lips  half -parted  as  to  speak  at  last. 

But  no.    At  bidding  of  some  inward  pang, 

Some  wan  irresolution,  some  distrust, 

The  bright  glance  quivers,  and,  alas,  is  gone : 

The  warm  hue  from  the  cheek  has  faded  out, 

And  comes  the  cold  dim  winter-gray  o'er  all, 

As  it  will  one  day  sadden  o'er  our  graves, 

When  hearts  that  might  love's  sunshine  for  a  space 

Have  known,  are  passionless :  when  all  that  is 

Is  yesterday,  and  all  to  come  is  naught. 


LYRICS. 


PRINCESS  OF  THE  MORNING. 

[From  the  play  of  "The  Prince  of  India."]* 

Princess  of  the  Morning  Light, 
Lean  sparkling  from  thy  throne  of  mist, 
The  valley  roses  wait  thee  to  be  kissed. 
The  jasmine  stills  its  chime  of  bells. 
The  palm-tree  droops  its  wide-plumed  head, 
And  the  mountain,  thro'  its  crags  and  fells, 
Thrills  longing  for  thy  downward  tread, 
Princess  of  the  Morning. 

Princess  of  the  Morning  Light, 
Joy  wakens  to  thy  breeze-blown  hair, 
Thy  fresh-drawn  breath  gives  rapture  to  the  air, 
The  heaving  of  thy  bosom  fills 
The  bird- folk  with  a  silver  song, 
And  to  thy  voice  the  rivers  and  the  rills 
Leap  into  laughter  sweet  and  long, 
Princess  of  the  Morning. 

Princess  of  the  Morning  Light, 
How  may  I  woo  thee  to  be  mine, 
And  ever  drink  thy  golden  rays  like  wine, 
And  keep  thee  mistress  of  my  soul. 
Yea,  I  would  slay  the  Emperor  of  Night, 
And  storm  his  castle  where  the  thunders  roll, 
To  win  thee  for  my  heart's  delight, 
Princess  of  the  Morning. 

*Music  by  Harriet  Ware. 

137 


138  LYRICS. 


IN  THE  VIOLET  DAWN. 

A  kiss  in  the  violet  dawn, 

Her  dark  hair  wild  on  my  breast. 
A  light  step  over  the  lawn, 

A  red  star  gone  in  the  West. 
And  lo,  as  I  turned  from  the  ancient  gate, 
Stood  Love  with  a  seal  for  my  life  and  fate : 
Stood  Love  rose-crowned  in  the  morning  mist, 
With  a  seal  of  pearl  and  amethyst. 

A  kiss  in  the  violet  dawn, 

The  chirp  of  a  waking  bird, 
The  rush  of  a  startled  fawn, 

The  echo  of  one  deep  word; 
And  whether  my  way  be  of  shards  or  flow'rs, 
Of  shadow  or  shine  in  the  after  hours, 
It  recks  me  little :  that  hour  was  mine 
That  fled  in  the  violet  dawn. 

Over  the  sea,  and  over  the  sea, 
A  woman's  heart  is  here  with  me, 
And  under  her  skies  when  the  dawn  wind  stirs, 
She  knows  that  my  heart  is  there  with  hers. 
Tho'  the  rose  that  tossed  in  her  hair  lie  dead, 
And  the  cheeks  gone  pale  that  flushed  so  red, 
She'll  feel  the  rise  and  fall  of  my  breast, 
As  we  watched  that  star  go  down  in  the  West, 
To  a  kiss  in  the  violet  dawn. 


LYRICS.  139 


A  kiss  in  the  violet  dawn, 
But  lo,  from  the  East  outspun, 

A  golden  glint  on  the  lawn, 
For  joy  of  Love's  risen  sun. 


THISTLEDOWN. 

Love's  star  of  silver  rays! 

Thy  message  in  thy  heart, 
Where  Life  lies  waiting  for  the  hour 
Of  bourgeoning  in  leaf  and  flower: 

Mystic  bark, 
Wind-tossed  thro'  many  sunny  ways 

And  dark 
Where  no  suns  be ; 

Type  of  her  love  thou  art 

To  me. 

O  seedlings  glorified ! 
Life's  promise  and  Love's  pray'r 

On  fairy  wings ; 
Earth-born  traveller  of  the  air, 

Hither  and  thither  blown, 

Seeking  thine  own — 
That  other  life  thy  goal, 

Whereon  alighting  from  above, 
With  thrill  of  mating  hearts  astir, 

Thy  touch  an  ecstacy  of  new  birth  brings ! 

Dead  Summer's  envoy  to  eternal  Springs ! 


140  LYRICS. 

Light  messenger, 

Pass  me  not  by ; 
Thou  bear'st  the  fructifying  soul 

Of  her 
I  love. 


AURA. 

Love's  message  has  no  word : 

Scarce  the  crimson  bow  has  stirred, 

Yet  we  capture  all  love's  rapture 

In  a  draught  of  warm  delight, 

And  a  mystical  emotion 

All  my  being  oversweeps, 

And  we  drift  on  love's  vast  ocean 

Out  amid  the  starry  deeps, 

Thro'  the  cool  waves  of  the  night 

As  the  current  lifts  and  leaps. 

Lo,  afar,  in  the  wake  of  a  star, 
By  the  Milky  Way 
From  realms  of  day 
Our  way  we  trace, 
Afloat,  from  all  apart, 
Tow'rd  No  Man's  Goal, 
Heart  to  throbbing  heart 
And  face  to  face, 
Soul  circling  soul, 


LYRICS.  141 

Love  filming  o'er  the  eyes, 
Love  thrilling  in  the  veins, 
Love  chained  in  Love's  own  spells, 

Love  with  love  for  wife. 
And  stillness  reigns, 
Save  for  the  deep-drawn  sighs 

That  ecstacy  compels 
To  show  that  Love  is  Life. 


GOOD  NIGHT. 

Good  night! 

May  you  dream  of  me : 

May  stars  be  your  light — 

Stars  in  the  deep,  deep  skies — 

So  my  face  may  be 

Lit  dimly,  and  my  soul 

Shine  through  mine  eyes ; 

And  the  plaintive  call 

Of  love's  music  fall 

Upon  your  ears, 

As  the  days  die  in  the  years, 

And  the  years  to  aeons  go, 

Blending, 

Ending  so. 

But  when  you  wake, 

And  morning's  rapture  take 

In  vivid  gleams, 

The  Sun,  the  rising  Sun  above, 


142  LYRICS. 

His  glory  on  the  deep, 

May  live  and  passionate  desire 

Thrill  you  with  real  fire 

And  warm  delight 

To  be. 

But  now,  O  love ! 

Sweet  sleep, 

And  starlit  dreams 

Of  me. 

Good  night ! 


WHATEVER  THE  HEART'S  DESIRE. 

Apples  of  Paradise 

High  on  the  limb, 

Withheld  from  me : 

Out  of  my  reach,  beyond  my  sighs ; 

Fair  to  the  eyes 

Till  eyes  grow  dim. 

Never  ye  drop  from  the  tree, 

Ripe  as  ye  glow, 

Even  when  wild  winds  waken, 

And  sing  as  they  go 

Their  ravishing  hymn, 

While  many  a  tree  is  shaken. 


LYRICS.  143 

Nor  may  I  take  heart  and  climb 

The  wrinkled  bole, 

For  the  serpent  waits 

And  the  climbers  fail, 

Oh,  pray  my  soul 

That  in  some  fair  time 

The  smileless  fates 

May  send  me  a  gale 

From  the  heavens  above 

That  will  sway  the  Paradise  tree 

Till  its  boughs  bend  down, 

Bend  down  to  me 

As  in  stress  of  love, 

And  I  pluck  the  prize 

From  the  tree's  fair  crown, 

The  red,  lush  fruit  of  ecstacy: 

Whatever  shapes  my  heart's  desire — 

A  world-sung  rhyme, 

Love  made  entire — 

Glad  to  my  lips 

As  now  to  mine  eyes 

With  longing  dim, 

Apples  of  Paradise 

High  on  the  limb. 


144  LYRICS. 


THE  JOYANCE  OF  SPRING. 

So  mating  songbirds  wing 

Among  the  apple  blooms, 
What  cares  the  light-heart  Spring 

For  Winter  griefs  and  glooms? 
The  clouds  may  float  and  darken, 

The  rain  may  glance  and  fall, 
The  gales  may  sweep — but  hearken! 

Her  joy  outruns  them  all. 

She  dances  o'er  the  blades 

Of  tender,  dewy  grass  ; 
She  romps  adown  the  glades  ; 

She  shimmers  in  the  pass. 
She's  mist-veiled  on  the  mountains  ; 

She's  green-robed  in  the  vales  ; 
She's  naked  by  the  fountains  ; 

She's  rain-clad  in  the  gales. 

Steal  down  the  orchard  aisles, 

When  morn's  yet  faint  with  gold, 
If  you  would  win  her  smiles 

And  all  her  charms  behold. 
In  dew-bespangled  tissue, 

And  borne  on  laughing  airs, 
She'll  come,  mayhap,  and  kiss  you — 

As  Love  comes — unawares. 


LYRICS.  141 


MINE. 

If  the  haven  could  be  but  known 

Whereto  my  thoughts  adrift 

Now  float. 

If  the  heaven  could  but  be  shown 

Whereto  mine  eyes  I  lift, 

What  note 

Would  ring  out  through  the  wilds  of  space? 

What  wide  world's  wonder  jar 

My  heart, 

At  the  daring  that  makes  her  face 

Mine  idol,  worshipped  afar, 

Apart? 

But  her  eyes  like  great  stars  o'f  fire 

Have  burned  their  glance  on  me 

Who  wait, 

And  her  lips  like  a  god's  sweet  lyre 

Have  shaped  for  times  to  be 

My  fate. 

O'er  the  tides  that  between  us  roll 

We've  triumphed ;  they  fret 

Undone : 

In  tremulous  deeps  of  the  soul 

Our  lives  and  loves  have  met, 

Are  one. 


146  LYRICS. 


AWAKENING. 

It  were  joy  to  have  lived,  if  only  to  know 
I  had  waked  in  this  dusk  of  the  woods  to  the  flow 
Of  a  streamlet  that  leaps  down  its  dell  to  the  lea, 
Its  waters  a-sparkle  and  beckoning  to  me : 

To  have  waked  in  the  forest  and  marveled  to  hear 
A  bird  at  its  matin-song  gladsome  and  clear : 
"From  dawn-blue  to  sun-glow  I've  haunted  your 

dream 
With  the  lure  of  Her  love  by  the  marge  of  the 

stream." 

To  have  slept  in  my  sorrow  and  wakened  but  now 
With  a  kiss  as  of  exquisite  lips  on  my  brow, 
And  Her  call  as  of  bells  to  a  world  that's  reborn, 
And  a  beat  in  my  blood  like  the  laughter  of  morn : 

To  have  wandered  and  toiled  in  the  deep  forest 

aisles, 

To  have  counted  in  darkness  the  wearisome  miles, 
To  have  slept  for  the  dream's  sake,  and  waked  with 

Love's  word 
At  the  lips  of  the  stream,  at  the  heart  of  the  bird. 


LYRICS.  147 


WILD  ROSES. 

Oh,  the  pale-red  twin  wild  roses 

By  the  path  adown  the  dingle, 
Where  the  Summer's  heart  reposes, 

Where  the  witching  wood-scents  mingle 
Where,  for  once,  the  sunbeams  weltered, 

As  the  harps  of  heaven  sounded; 
Where  the  peace  of  angels  sheltered, 

And  the  hour  of  hours  was  rounded ! 

And  we  watched  each  frail  red  blossom 

As  the  breezes  set  them  swaying, 
And  she  trembled  at  my  bosom 

As  they  nodded  in  their  playing, 
Mid  the  rustling  of  the  grasses 

And  the  murmur  of  the  river, 
Oh,  the  joy  that  thrills  and  passes! 

Oh,  the  dream  that  lives  forever! 

I  will  tread  that  path  in  Springtime 

With  the  vale  yet  bare  of  flowers, 
When  the  robins  find  their  wing-time, 

And  I'll  pray  the  April  showers: — 
"By  the  woe  that  life  discloses, 

Be  ye  gentle  in  your  weeping 
On  the  bed  of  our  wild  roses, 

On  the  grave  where  she  is  sleeping." 


148  LYRICS. 


THE  RIDE  OF  MALMORDA. 

"Well  thou  answerest,  steed;  well  thou  answerest! 
Keeping  time  to  thy  hoof-beats  my  heart  beats, 
Tramping  louder  as  faster  the  sparks  fly, 
Gallop  on  like  a  Valkyr,  still  gallop  on. 
Hollow  thunder  thou  mak'st  on  the  turf-land ; 
As  a  javelin  we  speed  by  the  timber  ; 
In  the  open  thy  hoof-tramps  beat  louder, 
While  the  dust  rises  up  to  the  smoke-cloud. 
Eager,  oh,  eager  my  soul  and  my  stallion; 
Touch  but  the  earth  as  thou  spurn'st  it,  uplifting; 
In  the  heart  of  thy  rider  such  speeding 
And  striding  and  reaching,  that  never  yet 
Steed  for  his  master  could  tramp  on  as  fast 
As  the  hurricane  wild  of  desire  sweeps  him 
Onward,  enwrapping  him,  urging  him  on 
To  where,  leaping  and  roaring,  flame-welcome 
Waits  him — the  fire  of  my  love  or  the  torch 
Of  disaster.    To  the  fire !    To  the  flame ! 
Oh,  gallantly,  valiantly  thunderest  thou. 
Fast  are  we  rising;  the  shadows  grow  thin. 
Twenty  strides  and  we'll  gaze  on  Moyla's  Hill, 
Whence  comes  the  hot  breath  of  the  stifling  wind. 
Now,  slower,  good  steed. 


LYRICS.  149 


CHRISTMAS  OF  LONG  AGO. 

In  the  midnight  sky  a  wonder; 

A  star  in  the  east  aglow, 
And  mellowest  voice  thereunder, 

Christmas  of  long  ago. 

With  gaze  upraised  the  sages, 
Poor  shepherd's  bending  low; 

A  rapture  to  light  the  ages; 
Christmas  of  long  ago. 

O,  Child-God  laid  in  the  manger, 

Who  bore  no  diadem ; 
To  the  lords  of  earth  a  stranger — 

Outcast  of  Bethlehem! 

Thy  message  came  to  the  lowly; 

Thy  star  was  sent  to  the  wise ; 
And  peace  and  love  were  the  holy 

Words  from  the  midnight  skies. 

They  filled  the  heart  of  one  other  , 
To  its  own  sweet  overflow: 

Peace  and  Love  to  the  Mother, 
Christmas  of  long  ago. 

Has  Time's  dust  dulled  its  glory? 

Have  tear  mists  blurred  its  rays  ? 
Is  it  now  too  old  a  story 

For  hurrying,  changing  days  ? 


150  LYRICS. 

Oh,  ever  our  hearts  shall  hearken 
To  the  angel's  chant  above, 

And  never  shall  distance  darken 
The  star  that  shines  in  love. 

And  ever  shall  smile  the  Mother, 
Mother  whose  child  was  God; 

God,  who  took  man  for  brother ; 
Brother  our  ways  who  trod. 

Forever  in  joy  completer 

Shall  the  clear,  glad  message  show, 
And  its  angel  voice  sound  sweeter — • 

Christmas  of  long  ago. 


HEARTSEASE. 

[From  the  play  of  the  same  title.]* 

Your  deep  sweet  eyes  have  thrilled  me, 

Beside  the  mountain  streams, 
Your  mellow  voice  has  filled  me 

With  happy,  sunlit  dreams. 
What  matter  how  the  words  ran, 

Their  melody  divine 
Is  singing  to  my  longing, 

"My  darling  shall  be  mine." 

The  maple's  trembling  shadows 

Are  dappling  o'er  the  glade, 
The  harebells  in  the  meadows 

Their  fairy  chimes  have  played, 

•Music  tjjr  Manuel  Klein, 


LYRICS.  151' 


What  care  we  how  they  rustled. 

What  matter  rain  or  shine, 
So  all  the  birds  are  singing 

"My  darling  shall  be  mine." 

From  out  the  woodland  roaming, 

Our  path  winds  gently  down. 
Before  us  in  the  gloaming, 

We  see  the  crowded  town. 
What  care  we  for  its  moiling, 

Its  fortunes  fair  or  fine, 
So  lips  and  souls  are  saying, 

"My  darling  shall  be  mine." 


A  SUNSET  SONG. 

As  under  the  spell  of  the  sunset  skies 
We  ask,  Shall  the  morrow  be  fair? 

So  ever  I  ask  of  thy  gracious  eyes 
If  the  promise  of  love  is  there. 

Ah  me !  we  know  not,  tho'  rose  and  gold 
Drape  the  outer  halls  of  the  night, 

But  dead  gray  clouds  by  the  storm-wind  rolled 
Shall  curtain  the  morning's  light. 

And  doubt  and  fear  of  my  soul  are  part, 

Tho'  shine  thine  eyes  so  fair ; 
Oh,  would  I  could  say  to  my  yearning  heart 

That  the  promise  of  love  is  there  | 


152  LYRICS. 


BEFORE  ME. 

Sweet  love,  the  days  since  last  we  met 
Have  dragged  in  shadow  o'er  me, 

But  lives  my  soul  in  pray'r  that  yet 
Joy's  harp  shall  sound  before  me — 

Before  me  in  a  ruddy  glow, 

Mid  smiles  and  flow'rs  before  me. 

I  lift  my  gaze  from  all  the  pains 
That  now  stand  death-like  o'er  me  ; 

Hope's  radiant  ringers  count  the  gains 
Of  matchless  meed  before  me. 

The  winds  a  priceless  promise  blow 
Of  guerdons  rare  before  me. 

'Twere  hard  mid  mem'ries  stained  with  tears, 
While  Woe's  red  sword  waves  o'er  me, 

To  look  beyond  life's  yearning  years 
Alone  for  light  before  me. 

To  peer  so  far  across  Death's  flow, 
And  bliss  be  still  before  me. 

But  thou  wert  born  'mid  crystal  light, 
And  while  thy  love  steals  o'er  me, 

I'll  gild  the  future  with  delight 
And  welcome  what's  before  me. 

I'll  chain  the  fears  that  tire  me  so 
And  grasp  the  Heaven  before  me. 


LYRICS.  153 


UNSLEEPING. 

Oh  if  it  be  more  meet  to  weep, 

Let  flow  my  tears. 
Though  ne'er  so  fain,  so  fain  for  sleep 

Through  weary  years. 

The  clock's  tick  and  the  dark's  dull  thrill, 

My  fever-glow, 
And  thoughts  of  her  the  long  hours  fill 

That  come  and  go. 

0  sleep,  my  burning  lids  to  seal, 
O  tears  that  wet, 

Why  come  ye  not  my  soul  to  heal, 
Or  let  forget. 

No,  not  forget :  better  to  burn, 

Better  to  lie 

Thus  seared,  awake,  than  turn 
To  Death  and  die. 

1  dread  not  Death,  but,  ah,  I  dread 
Not  to  remember 

Who  took  my  heart  life-thrilled  and  red, 
And  left  gray  ember. 


154  LYRICS. 


A  LOVE  PRAYER. 

The  sunshine  sang  to  the  butterfly 
"I  am  touching  thy  wings  with  gold." 

The  warm  breeze  whispered  in  rustling  by, 
"At  night  thou'lt  die  of  cold." 

O  morning  sun  upon  Love's  light  wings, 
O  cold  night-winds  of  the  heart, 

Be  mine  with  the  doom  of  living  things, 
But  oh,  be  long  apart. 


THE  SWORD  OF  LOVE'S  COMMAND. 

Was  there  ever  a  net  too  fine  for  Love  ? 
Was  there  ever  a  gate  too  wide  ? 

Are  there  depths  too  deep  ? 
Are  the  skies  above, 

That  lead  to  the  worlds  outside, 

Too  far,  or  their  airy  ways  too  steep 
For  the  daring  rush  or  the  onward  sweep 
Of  love  in  its  strength  and  pride  ? 

One  word,  my  love,  and  his  bastioned  hold 
Shall  bar  not  my  dauntless  might, 

Nor  the  men  at  his  gate, 
Nor  his  archers  bold, 


LYRICS.  155 

That  watch  for  him  day  and  night ; 

Nor  moat  nor  catapult  change  thy  fate, 
To  lodge  in  my  arms,  to  be  my  mate, 

And  to  drink  of  love's  delight. 

For  I  am  the  lord  of  a  magic  mine 
That  yields  nor  gold  nor  steel, 

But  the  flashing  ore 
Of  a  metal  fine, 

To  make  me  a  blade  so  leal, 

That,  surer  than  falchion  Roland  wore, 
Or  the  sword  that  Achilles  fighting  bore, 
Shall  strike  my  foe  to  my  heel. 

Was  there  ever  armor  it  would  not  pierce 
When  grasped  in  a  true  man's  hand  ? 

Was  e'er  wall  too  strong, 
Or  a  fight  too  fierce? 

Can  cunning  before  it  stand? 
Was  ever  a  battle,  whose  clamorous  song 
Was  chanted  from  morn  till  eve,  too  long 
For  the  sword  of  Love's  Command? 


156  LYRICS. 


FORGET-ME-NOT. 

I  gave  her  a  rose  of  the  crimson  red. 
"Warm  as  the  glow  of  my  love"  I  said. 
She  gave  me  a  blue  forget-me-not, 
And  turning,  straightway  my  love  forgot, 
For  roses  wither  tho'  love  be  true, 

And  the  warmer  the  kiss  the  sooner  cold, 
Forget-me-not  with  the  eyes  of  blue 
And  the  heart  of  virgin  gold. 

Forget-me-not  with  the  eyes  of  blue 
A  breath  has  withered  thee  through  and  through. 
They  named  thee  well  as  a  lover's  flow'r 
'Whose  bloom  will  fade  in  a  single  hour. 
For  loves  that  weather  the  storm  are  few, 

And  rose  leaves  fall  when  the  wind  is  cold, 
Forget-me-not  with  the  eyes  of  blue 
And  the  heart  of  virgin  gold. 

In  Hope's  fair  garden  there  is  no  bud, 
But  draws  its  tint  from  the  heart's  red  blood, 
And  when  it  has  drained  the  foolish  heart, 
'Tis  time  for  Love  and  Hope  to  part. 

For  pain  is  the  dower  of  love  that's  true. 
God  grant  us,  then,  loves  that  grow  swi'ftly 

cold, 

Forget-me-not  with  the  eyes  of  blue 
And  the  heart  of  virgin  gold. 


LYRICS.  157 


THE  CALL  OF  ELFLED,  THE  KING'S 
DAUGHTER. 

[From  "Lady  Godiva."] 

Dark  night  along  England's  coast. 
Up  from  their  ships  come  the  swarming  foemen; 

Harold  Sigurd  heads  their  host ; 
Swordsmen  and  spearmen  shouting  to  bowmen: — 

"The  fire,  the  fire  for  house  and  byre ! 

The  steel,  the  steel  till  the  Saxons  reel ! 
A  Valkyr  feast  of  thegn  and  yeoman! 
England,  all  England  our  spoil  of  war — 

A  haven  for  Odin's  raven, 

And  our  boast 
That  Death  beats  time  to  the  hammer  of  Thor." 


Red  flame  that  to  sleepers  came, 

Rose  bright  thro'  the  black  of  the  night. 

Alfwyn,  the  Saxon  king,  fell  in  his  palace, 

The  monk  at  his  prayers,  the  priest  with  the  chalice. 

Wide  went  the  wave  of  rapine  and  slaughter, 

And  many  a  Saxon  maid 

Was  dragged  to  the  Norseman's  lair 

With  shames  untold, 

Till  word  came  to  Elfled,  the  dead  king's  daughter, 

Who,  binding  her  golden  hair, 

And  girding  her  father's  blade, 

Cried  out  in  her  voice  of  gold : — 


158  LYRICS. 

"Strong  sons  o'f  the  Saxon  land, 
Out  on  the  foe  in  a  whelming  river, 

Shield  on  arm,  sharp  sword  in  hand, 
England,  fair  England  to  deliver! 

The  sword,  the  sword  on  the  Norseland  horde ! 

The  spear,  spear  till  they  blench  with  fear ! 
Bolt  from  bow  and  arrow  from  quiver, 

With  the  banner  of  Holy  Cross  before. 
To  stay  them  and  to  slay  them 
On  the  strand, 

And  free  our  godly  land  for  evermore." 


GERALDINE. 

The  rose  is  sweetly  blushing 

And  virgin  lilies  bloom, 
While  Summer-winds  are  bearing 

Their  heaven-sent  perfume, 
And  blithe  young  birds  are  singing 

Upon  the  beechen  tree 
Beneath  whose  shade  I'm  thinking, 

Dear  Geraldine,  of  thee. 

The  vesper  bell  is  toiling 

Its  solemn,  measured  chime, 
And  nature  all  seems  telling 

Of  the  golden  Summer  time. 
But  the  sun  shines  not  forever 

And  Summer  perfumes  flee, 
And  so  these  musings  whisper, 

Dear  Geraldine,  of  thee. 


LYRICS.  159 

For  when  in  Old  Dunleary, 

On  many  a  Summer's  eve, 
We  wandered  through  the  meadows 

The  future's  spell  to  weave, 
My  joy,  my  rose,  my  sunlight, 

Lily  and  birdie  free 
Were  love-bound  and  I  dreamed  for  aye, 

Dear  Geraldine,  in  thee. 


All's  gone  save  mem'ry's  lonely  smile, 

From  Erin  far  away ; 
Thy  glowing  soul  to  Heaven  flown, 

Thy  frame  in  churchyard  clay. 
While  the  inward  hope  celestial 

Is  all  remains  to  me, 
And  a  dream  across  the  twilight, 

Dear  Geraldine,  of  thee. 


PAIN  AND  LOVE. 

Dawn  and  delight  are  gain, 

Lifting  the  wings  of  the  dove; 
Morrows   for   sorrows  are  vain, 

O  love ! 
Look  thro'  the  clouds  and  the  rain 

To  the  stars  above  ; 
Rise  from  the  chrysalis,  Pain, 

To  the  wing'd  god,  Love. 


160  LYRICS. 


BETTER  THAN  FORGETTING. 

Sad  hours  are  these,  I  ween, 
Sad  glimmers  of  yestreen, 

Sad  bodings  of  tomorrow. 
As  spirits  dead-lights  wave 
Above  a  new-made  grave, 

So  brood  I  o'er  my  sorrow. 

From  weary,  weary,  dawn 
Till  weary  day's  withdrawn, 

And  till  the  stars  are  setting, 
O  heart  thou'rt  filled  with  pain 
Of  the  ne'er-to-be-again ; 

But  worse  would  be  forgetting. 


LUX  IN  TENEBRIS. 

When  in  the  dusk  two  lovers  meet — 
The  stars  still  dim  of  rays — 

They  kiss,  but  not  a  word  repeat: 
They  kiss  and  go  their  ways. 

When  in  the  day  two  lovers  greet 
Fond  words  may  flow,  I  wis, 

But  words  tho'  with  great  joy  replete, 
Yet  value  not  a  kiss. 


LYRICS. 


Oh,  in  the  dusk,  then,  darling  mine, 
Ere  yet  the  stars  grow  bright, 

Let  me  look  once  into  thine  eyne, 
And  kiss  once  for  delight. 


A  ROSEBUD  AT  THE  PLAY. 

Oh  sweet,  with  thy  rosebud  red  at  my  heart 
I  could  die,  and  smile  at  the  pain, 

For  my  darling,  my  darling  I  know  thou  art, 
And  love  is  my  sole  refrain. 

With  thy  rose  at  my  heart  I  sat  bowed  and  still 

While  the  violins  wailed  in  tune, 
And  the  flutes  piped  mellow  and  piccolos  shrill, 

And  the  horn  wooed  the  deep  bassoon. 

They  were  playing  new  dances  and  ballads  old, 
And  a  war  march  loud  and  strong, 

But  ditty  or  dithyramb,  quaint  or  bold, 
They  all  sang  the  one  sweet  song — 

The  song  of  a  rosebud  red  at  my  heart, 
Of  a  love  like  the  morning's  glow. 

For  oh,  my  darling  thou'lt  be  as  thou  art 
While  the  roses  of  love  can  blow. 


162  LYRICS. 


GLAD  BE  OUR  GOODBY. 

When  I  am  gone,  and  swift  the  train  has  curved 

Behind  the  bend, 
It  may  be  that  my  light  goodby  has  served 

To  mark  the  end; 
For  Death  has  posts  along  the  way :  they  rise 

In  stony  white, 
And  signal  unto  unexpectant  eyes, 

Eternal  night. 
Sweet,  seek  not  further  of  this  mystery: 

What  will  be,  will. 
My  own  true  lover,  and  my  heart-queen  be — 

My  sweetheart  still. 
For  there  is  naught  in  any  world  that  counts 

For  gain  or  loss, 
Save  as  it  counts  for  love,  for  love  that  mounts 

Or  throne  or  cross, 
And  martyr-lives  or  hero  dreams  are  spent 

In  vain, 
Save  as  they  plead  for  love  and  love's  content, 

Or  love's  sweet  pain. 
And  come  I  never  or  come  I  soon, 

My  sweet, 
Send  your  love  after  me  by  night  and  noon, 

My  love  to  meet. 
And  if  the  realm  of  darkness  be  perchance 

Their  meeting  place, 


LYRICS.  163 

Two  stars  as  one  they'll  light  the  black  expanse, 

And  love's  path  trace 
Unto  the  Paradise  of  spirits  clad 

In  endless  bliss. 
So  glad  be  our  goodby,  and  sweet  and  glad 

Our  parting  kiss. 


WHEN  BEAUTY  PASSES. 

Of  all  sweet  fervors  that  we  mortals  meet, 
Give  me  the  swift,  deep  moments  that  entrance 
When  beauty  passes  on  her  gleaming  feet, 
And  takes  us  with  the  glamor  of  her  glance. 

The  lightning  no  more  blinding  ray  expends : 
The  flash,  the  bolt,  the  thrill  come  all  as  one, 
And  we  are  smitten  ere  the  instant  ends : 
We  die,  and  lo,  a  new  life  has  begun. 

And  ever  after  we  are  slave  and  lord 
Of  that  great  Queen  in  light  and  grace  enthroned 
Our  souls  are  harp-strings  in  the  grand  accord, 
And  all  our  words  to  melody  intoned. 

So  glance  not  on  me,  wondrous  damosel, 
Lest  at  thy  feet  to  die  I  shall  be  fain : 
Yet  gaze  and  fold  me  with  thy  flaming  spell, 
That  I  may  die,  and  blissful  live  again. 


164  LYRICS. 


THE  SEAS  OF  NOON. 

Out  where  the  river  joins  the  sea, 
Where  sweet  and  salt  in  union  be, 
Where  sails  are  bent  and  winds  are  free 

In  rosy  hours  of  morn — 
Thro'  prattling  waves  and  laughing  flow 
Of  silver  that  the  broad  bows  throw  — 
The  mermaids  carolling  down  below, 

While  Triton  winds  his  horn — 


Oh,  boldly  let  me  take  you,  dear, 
The  rail  awash,  the  offing  clear, 
Far  and  away  our  boat  we'll  steer 

To  the  sleeping  seas  of  noon, 
The  seas  of  noon,  the  seas  of  calm, 
Of  warmth  and  light  and  ocean  balm, 
Where  silence  seems  a  Sabbath  psalm 

Whereof  love  dreams  the  tune. 


The  flag  may  droop  adown  the  mast, 
The  tiller  from  the  hand  be  cast, 
Our  boat  a  speck  amid  the  vast, 

A  lone  thing  white  of  wing, 
And  tho'  the  face  be  washed  with  spray 
Red  lips  shall  kiss  the  sting  away, 
Our  hearts  shall  beat  the  rondelay 

That  love's  own  minstrels  sing. 


LYRICS.  165 

We'll  drink  the  wine  of  topaz  hue, 
Whose  grapes  grew  golden  in  the  dew 
Of  hills  that  Aphrodite  knew 

On  Cytherea's  isle. 

We'll  banquet  on  the  breasts  of  doves, 
On  dolphins'  fins  and  wings  of  loves 
Found  poaching  in  Diana's  groves, 

And  snared  with  wicked  wile. 

Dark  Proserpina  we'll  invoke 

With  golden  leaves  from  Roanoke 

In  fine  spun  whirls  of  faint  blue  smoke 

Upon  the  drowsy  air, 
And  then,  O  love,  'twixt  kiss  and  kiss, 
We'll  drink  love's  ether  pure,  I  wis, 
Drawn  warm  from  hearts  athrill  in  bliss, 

Breathing  love's  only  pray'r. 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 


THE  SINKING  OF  THE  "ALBEMARLE." 

The  iron-armored   Albemarle    kept  watch  on  the 

Roanoke. 
She  had  sunk  one  ship  and  mocked  the  rest  with 

their  hulls  of  Yankee  oak ; 
For  when  she  fought  us,  one  to  six,  from  out  the 

fight  she  bore 
With  scatheless  ribs  and  long  great  guns  unsilenced 

in  their  roar, 
And  passed  upstream  victorious,  while  from  her 

iron  shield 

Our  crashing  shot  rebounded  and  our  wounded  war 
ships  reeled. 
And  so  she  lay,  grim,  dark  and  huge  in  front  of 

Plymouth  town, 
The  Stars  and  Bars  at  her  stunted  mast  and  her 

engine  fires  banked  down. 

From  May  until  September  came  our  fleet  lay  in  the 

Sound, 
Our    admirals    held    war    councils,    our    gunboats 

cruised  around, 
But  the  Stars  and  Bars  at  Plymouth  waved  free 

o'er  town  and  stream, 
And  Uncle  Abe  in  Washington  had  many  an  evil 

dream 
Of  a  rebel  ram  forever  moored  in  front  of  Plymouth 

town, 
With  a  Yankee  fleet  and  admirals  patrolling  up  and 

down. 


170  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

Then  came  Lieutenant  Gushing  and  spake  up  to 

Admiral  Lee, 
"I'll  sink  the  Albemarle,"  he  said,  "but  give  the 

task  to  me." 
"Impossible!"   answered  the   Admiral.     "Sir!   not 

that  word,  I  pray; 
Impossible's  writ  for  timid  souls,  and  not  for  men 

of  to-day. 
While  heart  can  dare  and  hand  can  do  and  death's 

but  a  crown  of  meed, 
No  bar  can  stand  before  a  thought  that's  backed 

by  true  man's  deed. 
She  stands  athwart  the  Union  course  moored  there 

by  Plymouth  town ; 
Her  armor  cannot  save  her;  she  is  there;  she  must 

go  down." 

The  Admiral  laughed  a  sea-dog's  laugh  and  said, 

"Your  faith  is  strong, 
So  test  it  on  the  Albemarle,  which  bars  our  way 

so  long." 
And  Uncle  Abe  wrote,  "Help  the  boy  to  carry  out 

his  plan, 
For  he  who  dares  what  fleets  can't  do  must  be 

something  of  a  man." 


October   the  twenty-seventh,   the   night   fell   thick 

and  dark, 
When  Gushing  steamed  from  the  fleet  upstream,  the 

Albemarle  his  mark. 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  171 

He  gazed  up  the  darkened  river  as  he  stood  by  the 

upswung  spar 
With  its  great  torpedo  ready,  and  he  watched  for 

shoal  and  bar. 
There  were  fifteen  brave  men  with  him,  every  man 

a  volunteer — 
While  a  nation  breeds  such  hero-stuff  has  it  even 

Fate  to  fear? 
When  the  worst  that  comes  meets  pledge  and  proof 

that  tho'  good  fortune  lag, 
There  will  always  be  hands  at  break  of  dawn  to 

raise  the  starry  flag? 

The  rain  came  out  of  the  misty  clouds  as  the  launch 

the  waves  cleft  through, 
And  few  were  the  words  he  spake  to  his  men — a 

hero's  words  are  few : 

But  he  felt  the  soul  of  the  Union  enter  into  his  soul, 
And  heard  in  the  throb  of  the  engine  the  drum  of 

the  Union  roll. 
A  mother's  face  looked  down  thro*  the  mist,  a  girl's 

face  smiled  and  was  gone, 
And  the  brother  who  fell  at  Gettysburg  beckoned 

his  brother  on. 

Eight  miles  they  steamed,  all  watchful,  up  the  nar 
rowing  Roanoke, 

And  only  the  rebel  sentinels'  "All's  well"  the  silence 
broke, 

Till  close  by  Plymouth  town,  before  their  eager, 
straining  eyes 

They  saw  the  black-ribbed  Albemarle  enormous 
loom  and  rise, 


172  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

And  out  of  it  came  a  ringing  voice,  "What  boat  is 

that?"    A  cheer 
Went  up  from  every  sailor's  throat:  "The  Union 

boys  are  here !" 

"Now  steady,"  cries  Gushing,  "ev'ry  man !  A  min 
ute  and  'twill  be  done. 

Half  speed!  head  straight  for  her  quarter;"  but 
ere  she  can  make  the  run — 

A  flash  breaks  from  the  Albemarle  ;  the  balls  whiz 
overhead. 

The  launch  for  the  iron  mountain  steers  'neath  a 
shower  of  lead. 


What's  that?    By  the  flashing  light  they  see  that  a 

massive  log-boom  floats 
In  a  square  about  the  Albemarle.     "  'Tis  there  to 

stop  our  boats ; 
Lieutenant,  we  cannot  cross  it ;"  but  Gushing  sternly 

cries : 
"It  shall  not  stop  us — a  wooden  boom  with  an  iron 

ram  the  prize ! 
Hard-a-port!  bear  off  a  hundred  yards;  we'll  dash 

at  the  boom  full  steam." 
She's  speeding  out   for  the  desp'rate  rush,  while 

lights  on  the  great  ram  gleam. 
There's  rattle  of  grape  and  hurtle  of  shot  as  Gush 
ing  brings  her  'round. 
The  Roanoke  shivers  beneath  the  boat  with  rush 

and  thunder  of  sound. 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  173 

"Lieutenant,  you  have  not  counted  that  though  we 

may  bound  across 
The  line  of  logs,  and  the  giant  bomb  close  to  the 

ram's  side  toss, 
The  launch  can  never  get  out  again."    Then  rose  a 

voice  of  doom : 
"WE'RE  GOING  TO  SINK  THE    ALBEMARLE;   WE'RE 


Oh,  look  at  Gushing  a  moment  as  he  rises  up  in  the 
prow, 

Ready  to  lower  the  spar  that  bears  the  bomb  on  the 
launch's  bow. 

A  lanyard  is  lashed  to  either  wrist  to  signal  the  en 
gineer. 

Each  hand  grasps  halliard  and  lanyard  strong  the 
bomb  of  fate  to  steer. 

His  thin  lips  clenched,  his  lowered  brows,  his  gaze 
intent  and  dire, 

His  face  lit  up  in  lurid  gleams  by  the  flash  of  the 
rebel  fire. 


"Full  steam  ahead !"    Like  a  tiger  cub  at  a  dragon 

spouting  flame, 
The  launch  speeds  toward  the  Albemarle — onward 

to  death  or  fame. 
A  crunch  at  the  bow,  a  lift,  a  plunge ;  she's  over  the 

boom  and  glides 
In  a  torrent  of  shot  and  whirl  of  fire  up  to  the  iron 

sides. 


;:    s~:  -.:-::;:   :'r.—.i~r   rccms  : 

v.  :.-.  e  5  -irrv-r.c. 
\\  nh  bmach  and  men  di  owned  under,  lor  the  bomb 

is  dipped  and  sprang; 
And  the  ram  with  mighty  shudder  from  the  blasting 


And  heaves  above  the  sinking  hunch  while  the 


An  instant  of  silence.     "Surrender!"  "NewT  is 


a  sinking  ship  and  sinking  cause.     We  are 

here  :;   i;  ;r  lie  " 
The  great  ram  topples  toward  hm^  as  he  throws 

.~__rr.  ;  v  e  r  :•:  in. 
And  the  river  seaward  carries  him  as  die  rebel 

.  ;  •'•  ;  r  ;  i 


The  darkness  doses  round  him,  the  sounds  of  the 
-_  e  5     -_5  with  the  gmgfing  water  and  his  brain's 


Lord!  to  know  if  F^e  sank  her.    Oh,  God,  for 
—     rillir.:  —  e~ 
Was  I  bold  enoagh?    Is  the  deed  half  done  or  oorj 

::    ::   iriir. : 

He  bears  a  groan  beside  him  and  a  white  face  sinks 

.-  :-t  £:•:•;. 
.-.-  :  ft:  .-...-   ::-:-:tf     r: 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  : ;  .- 

But  the  heart  beats  on  defiant,  tifl  wider  bis  feet 

at  last 

He  feels  the  touch  of  the  soKd  earth,  and  swoons  tiH 
the  night  is  past. 


A  shaft  of  fire  from  the  risen  son  awakens  him  to 

pain. 
The  torture  of  doubt  which  closed  his  eyes  stiD 

racks  his  throbbing  brain, 
He  raves  aloud  at  the  •••miitfmgr  JQQ  that  looks  on 

Plymouth  town, 
Yet  will  not  tell  a  Union  man  if  the  rebel  nun's 

gone  down; 

When,  hark !  in  the  brush  dose  by  he  hears  a  gray- 
haired  darky  sing: 
"Oh,  bress  de  Lor  lor  de  water-gun  dar*s  done  db 

curyis  ting. 
De  hole's  as  big  as  a  barn-door,  shore,  in  de  side  of 

de  iron  ram, 
An'  shell  sink  no  more  Abe  Ltnkmn's  ships  wit*  de 

flag  ob  Uncle  Sam." 


Now  up   springs  Gashing,  joyful  as  it 


Of  his  pain  and  grief  and  htmgci  he  does  not  feel 

a  pang, 
For  the  rebel  sentries  •migH  he  recks;  his  poises 

rr.aily  bea:. 

"Xow  God  be  thanked  for  this  newsT  he  cries: 
"I'll  carry  it  to  the  fleet.'* 


176  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

He  springs  in  a  boat  by  the  river's  bank,  and  soon 

he  speeds  ahead 
To  the  fleet  that  afar  is  waiting,  and  where  they 

mourn  him  dead. 


Tis  far,  his  boat  is  frail  to  tempt  the  waves  of  the 

open  Sound; 
The  sun  that,  rising,  waked  him,  sends  a  stifling  heat 

around. 
He  is  faint,  but  pulls  with  tireless  stroke  till  the 

dying  of  the  day, 
And  when  the  night  is  round  him  still  the  fleet  is 

far  away. 
But  pull  he  must  till  arm  and  hand  their  help  to 

him  refuse, 
"The  Union  fleet,  the  Union  fleet  must  hear  the 

glorious  news." 
'Tis  that  keeps  up  brave  Gushing  till  he  spies  the 

anchor  lights, 
As  ever  against  the  drowse  and  daze  with  iron  will 

he  fights. 
"Ahoy!  ship  ahoy!"  he  hails  them.    "I  come  from 

Plymouth  town: 
"The  Lord  is  still  with  the  Union  fleet;  the  rebel 

ram's  gone  down." 


They  mustered  and  they  cheered  him  in  the  middle 

of  that  night, 
And  rockets  were  fired  and  blue  lights  burned,  as 

well,  indeed,  they  might, 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  177 

For  every  day  God  does  not  cast  a  man  in  Cushing's 

mould, 
With  purpose  clear,  with  dauntless  breast  and  heart 

of  virgin  gold. 


THE  VIRGINIA  CADETS. 

Battle  of  New  Market,  Va.,  in  the  Shenandoah  Valley,  May  i5, 
1864,  in  which  225  cadets  of  the  Virginia  Military  Institute  of  Lex 
ington,  Va.,  all  between  sixteen  and  eighteen  years  old,  acting  as 
infantry,  fought  on  the  Confederate  side,  capturing  a  Federal  bat 
tery  after  a  gallant  charge  in  which  nine  of  their  number  were  killed 
and  forty-six  wounded.  The  war  has  passed  into  historical  perspec 
tive.  Now  that  a  united  nation  stands  under  our  glorious  flag,  the 
deeds  of  all  heroes,  South  as  well  as  North,  are  our  common  heritage. 

'Shun !  dress !  shoulder  a'ms ! 

Fours  right!     Forward!    March! 
That  was  how  they  kept  us  at  it; 

Heads  up — stiff  as  starch. 

We  were  Virginia  boys,  three  hundred, 

In  Virginia's  military  school. 
The  war  was  raging  North  and  South, 

And  how  could  we  fiery  lads  keep  cool? 
For  we  were  bred  in  a  battling  time, 

And  ours  was  our  fathers'  creed. 
The  Old  Dominion, 
In  our  opinion, 

Was  bound  for  the  South  to  bleed  ; 

And  that  being  so,  we'd  all  agree 

That  under  the  Lord  and  Robert  Lee 

The  South  was  sure  to  succeed. 


178  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

So  ev'ry  day  it  was  "Shoulder  a'ms !" 

In  a  stiff  battalion  drill, 
And  ev'ry  night  there  was  news  of  a  fight, 
With  Lee  in  Richmond  still, 
While  the  men  who  stood 
With  the  gallant  Hood 
Held  Tennessee  with  a  royal  will. 

I  reckon  'twas  only  good  news  we  got, 

For  we  always  gave  it  a  cheer, 
And  when  our  three  hundred  loosed  their  lungs 

'Twas  something  the  deaf  might  hear. 
To  double  up  Grant  was  just  the  job 
We  expected  of  Lee,  and  we  called  him  Bob, 

Our  brave  old  General  Lee. 

But  it  don't  need  bugles  or  rattling  drums 
To  spread  it  around  when  bad  news  comes. 
One  day  in  May  it  was  in  the  air. 
Like  a  ghost  or  a  mist  we  felt  rise — 
A  droop  to  the  lip 
Of  Colonel  Ship, 

A  mournful  flap  to  the  company  flags, 
A  husky  note  to  the  chaplain's  prayer, 

And  a  cavalry  major  dressed  in  rags, 
With  gaunt  brown  face  and  with  eager  eyes, 

Clattering  into  the  Institute  Square. 
"Virginia  calls  for  her  fighting  sons !" 

That  was  all  he  said,  but  its  sharp  appeal 
Meant  danger  at  hand  from  Fed'ral  guns, 

A  call  to  battle  and  steel  to  steel. 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  179 

Dumbly  we  stood  for  a  moment's  space, 

Then  each  lad  lifted  up  his  face, 

On  many  a  cheek  a  pitying  tear; 

But  out  from  our  hearts  there  rose  a  cheer, 

And  the  Colonel  raising  his  hand,  said  then, 

"I'll  bring  Virginia  three  hundred  men !" 

In  a  minute's  time  we  were  wild  with  joy. 

In  all  our  ranks  there  was  not  one  boy. 

We  had  grown  to  be  men  at  the  Colonel's  word. 

The  cavalry  Major  seemed  in  doubt. 

"All  under  sixteen  years  fall  out!" 
But  never  a  lad  from  a  company  stirred. 
If  they'd  waited  the  step  of  a  single  cadet, 
That  young  battalion  would  stand  there  yet. 

Next  morning,  though,  at  the  big  bell's  toll, 
.We  lacked  twenty-five  at  the  muster  roll. 

"They're  under  the  age,"  the  Colonel  said. 

"Too  young,  God  knows,  for  Yankee  lead." 
"To  bring  them  to  fight  the  law  forbids." 
The  Major  said,  "So  we've  caged  the  kids. 
But  Lord,  how  they  pled  with  groans  and  tears, 
To  be  rated  just  once  at  sixteen  years. 
Ain't  seen  the  like  since  the  war  began, 
And  the  smallest  of  all  was  the  biggest  man. 
How  he  did  beg,  and  struggle,  and  strive!" 
Then  we  two  hundred  and  seventy-five 
Sent  up  a  cheer  for  the  little  chap, 

And  the  captain  of  Company  A, 
Saluting  the  Colonel,  touched  his  cap, 

And,  tossing  his  curly  head,  did  say : 


180  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

"We'll  fight  for  three  hundred  just  the  same!"— 
Our  flags  here  fluttered  upon  the  wind — 

"We'll  fight  for  Virginia  and  all  the  South, 
Through  storm  and  sunshine,  fire  and  flame, 

Up  to  the  Yankee  cannon's  mouth. 

Good  luck  to  the  men  we  leave  behind !" 

'Shun!  dress!  shoulder  a'ms! 
Rang  out  the  loud  command, 

And  we  marched  away 

By  the  noon  that  day 
To  fight  for  the  Southern  land. 
Two  twenty-five  with  the  infantry 
And  the  rest  with  the  guns  in  the  battery, 
Down  by  Shenandoah's  grassy  banks 
And  not  a  mustache  in  our  marching  ranks. 

Next  day  we  fell  in  with  the  conscripts  rough 
From  the  upland  farms  with  any  sort  of  arms. 
Day  after  that  with  the  vet'rans  tough, 

In  their  joy  and  their  rags, 

With  their  tattered  flags  ; 

And  how  they  cheered  us  and  made  us  proud, 
As  boldly  we  marched  into  camp,  and  "allowed' 
We  were  "jest  sot  up  as  men  should  be — 
Fit  for  to  fight  under  old  Bob  Lee." 

"Sigel  is  coming!"  the  word  was  spread. 
"Pushing  for  Lynchburg  straight  ahead." 
So  the  batteries  limbered ;  the  cavalry  clanked ; 
Fires  were  put  out;  the  infantry  ranked. 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  181 

And  Breckinridge,  grim  as  an  iron  man, 
Rode  off  with  his  staff,  and  our  fight  began 
Where  the  hills  to  the  valley  roll  gently  down, 
And  the  pike  runs  by  New  Market  town. 
Woods  on  the  right,  and  a  deep  ravine, 
'Cross  centre  and  left,  lay  there,  between 
The  boys  in  blue  and  the  boys  in  gray 

In  their  battle  rally, 
The  batteries  loudly  beginning  the  fray, 

And  a  rainstorm  driving  up  the  valley. 


The  tale  of  the  battle  I  cannot  tell. 

We  stood  till  arose  on  our  left  the  yell 

Of  the  Southern  boys  at  the  word  "Advance!" 

Then  forward,  too,  with  our  hearts  wild  beating 

And  ev'ry  throat  the  yell  repeating: — 

"Capture  the  guns  beyond  the  ravine!" 


"Zip !"  went  the  bullets  past  heedless  ears, 

"Chunk!"  fell  the  shells,  up  rose  our  cheers, 

Down  the  ravine  with  a  rush  and  tumble, 

Up  the  ravine  with  a  pitch  and  stumble, 

Out  on  the  plateau.     "Halt,  form  line !" 

"On  double-quick !"     Crash  came  shell 

Into  our  faces,  fired  pell  mell. 

A  spurt  of  blood  as  the  next  boy  fell; 

Not  mine !    We  were  hit,  but  we  never  broke, 

And  charged  like  mad  for  the  cannon  smoke 

With  red,  quick  flashes  leaping  from  its  heart. 


182  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

Three  hundred  yards  to  the  mouths  of  the  guns. 
"Virginia  calls  for  her  fighting  sons!" 
Here  we  are  coming  as  fall  three  score 

In  their  blood  and  their  pride, 
And  we  rush  before 

Like  a  breaking  tide, 
Virginia  boys!     Virginia  sons! 

And — WE  TAKE  THE  GUNS. 

Over  the  dead  see  our  school  flag  float  ; 

But  our  pride  strikes  top  of  its  mad  joy  when 
We  hear  from  our  general's  rough  old  throat : 

"Well   done,   Virginians!     Well   done,   MEN!' 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  183 


CUSTER'S  LAST  CHARGE. 

[Battle  of  the  Little  Big  Horn,  June  25,  1876.] 

On  through  the  mist  of  the  morning, 

On  through  the  midday  glare; 
A  hard,  rough  ride  by  the  Rosebud's  side, 

Cutting  swaths  through  the  sultry  air. 
With  tightened  girths  and  with  bridles  free, 
Their  sabres  clattering  beside  the  knee; 
Pistol  and  carbine  ready  at  hand, 
And  one  brave  heart  through  the  wide  command, 
Rode  the  sun-browned  troopers  till  eve  grew  red — 
Rode  Custer  right  at  the  column's  head. 

"Small  rest  to-night;  by  to-morrow's  sun 

We'll  strike  the  red  man's  trail, 
But  an  hour  to  breathe  till  the  fight  is  won, 

Till  the  climax  caps  the  tale." 
And  the  troopers  spring  to  the  saddle  once  more, 

For  Custer  has  heard  that  the  Sioux  are  near, 
And  he  longs  for  Glory  as  never  before, 

And  he  knows  not  the  name  of  doubt  or  fear. 

"On  by  the  stars,  scan  well  the  trail, 

And  miss  not  an  Indian  sign." 
Now  the  dawn  is  gray  and  the  stars  are  pale, 

And  hope  is  high  on  the  lengthened  line — 
The  hope,  half  joy,  of  the  soldier's  trust, 

That  waits  not  trump  or  drum. 
"Scatter  out,  my  lads,  so  the  heavy  dust 

Shall  not  tell  the  Sioux  we  come." 


184  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

But  up  on  the  hills,  a  moveless  shape — 

An  Indian  plumed  for  war — 
Sees  the  mad  advance,  sees  the  carbines  glance 

'Mid  the  galloping  lines  afar. 
"Custer,  the  Chief  of  the  Yellow  Hair," 

He  mutters  with  bated  breath, 
"Boldly  you  ride  to  the  red  man's  lair : 

Welcome,  white  chief,  to  Death." 

And  Custer,  still  at  the  column's  head, 

Spurs  on  that  none  may  share 
The  first  glance  down  the  river's  bed — 

The  game  he's  hunted,  there. 

Brave  child  of  the  battle,  with  hope  elate, 
See  you  not  with  your  frank  blue  eyes 

They  are  five  to  one  and  they  lurk  and  wait, 
On  every  brow  the  stamp  of  Hate 

That  never  wears  out  or  dies. 

But  the  soldier  turns  in  his  saddle  and  cries : 

"Hurrah  for  Custer's  luck,  the  Sioux 

Have  met  me  face  to  face  ; 
The  game,  lads,  is  for  me,  for  you, 

Who  would  a  step  retrace? 
Not  one,  for  never  twice  to  man 

Such  battle-chance  was  given, 
To  snatch  red  honor  in  the  van, 

Since  yon  steep  crags  were  earthquake  riven. 
Reno,  dash  over  the  river  there. 
God,  how  the  prancing  devils  swarm! 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  185 

The  squaws  shall  wail 
Thro'  the  mile-wide  vale 
When  sweep  we  down  it  like  a  storm. 
Mine  be  the  charge  on  their  midmost  band," 

And  his  broad-brimmed  hat  in  the  air  he  tossed. 
"Now,  lads,  ride  on  like  a  prairie  flame, 
You  follow  a  man  who  has  never  lost." 


Three  hundred  horsemen  spring  at  his  heels, 

And  every  trooper  his  ardor  feels, 

And  the  clatter  and  rush  of  their  horses'  feet 

The  terrible  rhythm  of  War  repeat, 

As  they  sweep  by  the  bluffs  while,  cocked  at  hand, 

Their  carbines  glint  'long  the  brave  command, 

Custer  in  front,  down  the  steep  incline, 

Into  the  Indians'  ambushed  line. 


On  through  the  smoke  of  the  battle, 

Dimming  the  blinding  glare, 
A  headlong  ride  to  the  riverside, 

Cutting  swaths  through  the  redmen  there. 
Cutting  swaths,  but  the  troopers  are  falling; 
Falling  fast,  while  the  swarming  foe 
From  the  earth  and  the  hills  seem  to  grow, 
And  the  roar  of  their  rifles,  appalling, 

Rolls  out  in  a  long  thunder  rattle. 
See!  Custer  has  swerved  from  the  river, 
"Fire!  fight  to  the  hill!    We'll  have  Reno  soon 
here!" 


186  BALLADS  OF  BATTLE. 

His  voice  like  a  clear  trumpet  sound,  without  quiver, 
Is  heard  by  the  remnant  unfallen.    A  cheer 

Is  their  answer :  but  leaving  their  cover 

Fresh  swarms  of  the  Sioux  ride  down  on  the 
band. 

In  the  grim  wild  fight  from  the  river 
Three  hundred  had  shrunk  to  a  score, 
Their  track  was  of  heroes'  gore 
And  corses  of  heroes  who  went  to  rest 
Fighting  one  against  ten,  but  breast  to  breast, 
With  savage  foes  in  their  death-embrace, 
The  brave  and  the  braves  dying  face  to  face, 

Unhorsed,  in  a  narrow  circle 
That  blazed  at  its  outer  rim, 

Whence  their  fast-fired  bullets  hurtle, 
Stood  Custer  and  ten  with  him. 

"If  Reno  comes  he  will  find  us  here, 
If  he  comes  not  we'll  meet  him  there." 

And  he  looked  up  to  Heaven  unblanched  by  fear, 
With  the  sun  on  his  yellow  hair. 

"Here,  while  a  man  is  left,"  he  cried, 
"Let  a  gun  be  heard  till  dust  is  dust. 

Death  is  in  front,  but  the  end  of  Fame 
Comes  not  to  the  brave  who  keep  their  trust." 

A  rampart  of  dead  men  around  him. 

Doomed  Custer  stands  all  but  alone, 
He  but  speaks  through  the  mouth  of  his  rifle, 

And  there's  death  in  its  every  tone. 


BALLADS  OF  BATTLE.  187 

On  through  the  smoke  of  the  battle, 
With  maddening  cries  on  the  air, 

The  wild  Sioux  rush  from  the  riverside 
Like  wolves  on  a  man  in  their  lair, 

Like  wolves,  and  trusting  to  numbers 
They  sweep  on  the  desperate  few, 
Who  each  bid  a  stern  adieu 
To  the  tried,  to  the  trusted  and  true. 

Then  die  where  they  stand,  as  the  oncoming  yell 

Of  the  savages  lifts  up  its  chorus  from  hell. 

Ere  the  horse  hoofs  trampled  the  ramparts  dread 

The  last  of  the  whole  command  lay  dead — 

A  sight  for  the  world,  in  pride,  to  scan, 

While  Valor  and  Duty  lead  the  van. 

They  charged,  they  struggled,  THEY  DIED  TO  A  MAN. 

And  fame  will  never  forget  that  ride, 
That  wild,  mad  dash  to  the  riverside, 
Where  Custer  died. 


MANHATTAN:  AN  ODE. 


MANHATTAN. 

[An  Ode  for  the  Hudson-Fulton  Centennial,  September,   1909.] 

Here  at  thy  broad  sea  gate, 
On  the  ultimate  ocean  wave, 
Where  millions  in  hope  have  entered  in, 

Joyous,  elate 

A  home  and  a  hearth  to  win; 
For  the  promise  you  held  and  the  bounty  you  gave, 

Thou,  and  none  other, 
1  call  to  thee,  spirit;  I  call  to  thee,  Mother, 
America! 


'Spirit  of  the  world  of  the  West 
Throned  on  thy  lifted  sierras, 
Rivers  the  path  for  thy  feet, 
Forests  of  green  for  thy  raiment, 
Wide-falling  cascades  the  film  of  thy  veil, 
Mo  on- glow  and  star-Hash  thy  jewels, 
Sunrise  the  gold  of  thy  hair, 
Sweet  was  thy  lure  and  compelling. 


Europe,  pale,  jaded,  had  palled  us, 
Asia,  o'ergilded,  repelled  us, 
Africa,  desert-faced,  haunted  us, 
Thou,  when  in  freshness  of  morning,  hadst  called 

us 

And  zvanted  us, 
Held  us. 

191 


192  MANHATTAN:  AN  ODE. 

Over  the  ocean  we  came  then, 

Wondering,  hoping,  adoring, 

Called  thee  our  mother,  kissing  thy  feet, 

Kindling  our  love  into  flame,  then, 
Old  worlds  and  old  loves  ignoring, 
Making  new  bondage  sweet. 

Bless  us  to-day,  O  Mother. 


Hark,  how  the  bells  are  chiming, 

How  wind  the  horns,  how  cymbals  clash, 

And  a  chorus,  in  mighty  volume  timing, 

To  tramping  beat  that  never  lags ! 

Heavily  booming  the  cannons  flash, 

And  the  air  is  thrilled  with  the  snapping  flags ! 


Where  passed  the  grim  Briton  with  venturing  prow 

In  the  cycles  fled, 

The  city  that  stands  like  a  fortress  now, 

Turreted  high  by  the  edge  of  the  water, 

America's  eldest,  magnificent  daughter, 

With  garlands  is  twining  her  brow, 

For  joy  that  her  laughing  heart  remembers 

Three  hundred  red  and  gold  Septembers. 


To  catch  the  glint  of  her  proudest  glance, 
To  hear  the  heartening  music  of  her  drum, 
To  see  her  banners  flutter  and  advance, 
Glad  in  the  sunrise,  let  us  come. 


MANHATTAN:  AN  ODE.  193 

Not  as  came  Hudson  thro'  mists  of  the  sea — 
Dipping  and  rolling  his  Dutch-built  ship — 
Scanning  the  landfall  with  hungering  eyes 
And  close-clenched  lip, 
By  morning  and  noon, 

Creeping  past  headland  and  sand-billowed  dune, 
Wing- weary  ghost  of  a  phantom  quest, 
Steering  athrill  but  where  waters  led  west. 


Not  as  when  taking  the  sweep  of  the  bay, 
Sparkling  agleam  in  the  brave  Autumn  weather, 
Silent  of  man  in  the  new  dawn  aquiver, 
Anchored  his  lone  ship  lay. 
Not  as  he  sailed  where  the  hills  draw  together 
Holding  his  course  up  the  broad-breasted  river, 
Only  the  dream  of  Beyond  in  his  brain, 
Only  the  seas  of  Cathay  to  attain, 
On  till  the  narrowed  stream  told  him  'twas  vain. 
Then  back  as  one  baffled,  undone, 
Unknowing  he'd  won  by  the  gate  of  the  sea 
The  throne  of  an  empire  of  peoples  to  be. 
Peace  to  his  dream  that  found  ghastly  close 
Mid  the  sheeted  wraiths  of  the  arctic  snows! 


Not  as  came  Fulton:  even  he 

Came  brooding  at  the  level  of  the  sea, 

Elect  among  the  genius-brood  of  men, 

Grandson  of  Ireland,  son  of  the  land  of  Penn, 

Pale-browed,  nursing  a  great  work-day  dream — 

Harnessing  the  racers  of  the  deep  to  steam. 


194  MANHATTAN:  AN  ODE. 

Here  first  his  Clermont  turned  her  paddle  blades, 
And  so,  cur  flag  above  his  craft  unfurled, 
He  steamed  beneath  the  Palisades, 
The  Father  of  all  steam-fleets  of  the  world. 
Well  may  Manhattan  glory  in  his  fame, 
And  on  her  highest  roster  carve  his  name, 
Yet,  not  as  came  he,  let  us  come. 


•N 


o :  to  the  skies  as  on  wings 
Let  us  rise, 

And  come  from  the  east  with  the  faint  red  dawn. 
Haven  and  harbor  are  carpets  of  trembling  gold, 
And  the  silver  mist  to  the  green  hills  clings 
Till  the  mounting  sun  has  the  web  withdrawn, 
And  behold, 

The  city  lifts  up  to  its  height  at  last, 
With  frontage  of  hull  and  funnel  and  mast 
In  the  day's  full  beam, 

And  over  the  sky-topping  roofs  in  the  blue, 
Over  the  flags  of  many  a  hue 
Are  waving  white  pennons  of  steam. 

We  know  thee,  Manhattan,  proud  queen, 

And  thy  wonderful  mural  crown, 

With  Liberty  islanded  there  at  thy  knee, 

Uplifting  her  welcome  to  those  who'd  be  free, 

And  beckoning  earth's  trodden  down. 

We  know  how  the  waters  divide 

And  unite  for  thy  pride, 

And  the  lofty  bridges  of  steel  stretch  hands 

To  the  burg  on  the  height  that  stands 


MANHATTAN:  AN  ODE.  195 

For  thy  wealth's  overflow : 

With  the  freighters  creeping  between, 

And  the  slow,  slanted  sails  slipping  to  and  fro, 

As  the  giants  of  ocean  steam  in  and  go  forth. 

We  trace  thy  slim  island  reach  up  to  the  north, 

Its  streets  in  arrowy  distance  aloom, 

Its  mart,  its  homes,  its  far-off  tomb; 

The  pleasure  greens  dotting  thy  vesture  of  white, 

And  tower  and  steeple  like  spears  in  the  light. 

Lift  thee,  Manhattan,  no  peer  to  thy  strength, 

Energy  crystaled  in  turrets  of  stone, 

Force  chained  to  form  thro*  thy  breadth  and  thy 
length, 

The  builders'  Gibraltar,  the  fortress  of  trade, 

Might  of  the  mart  into  monument  fashioned, 

Mammon  translated  to  mountain  man-made, 

The  clouds  ever  nigher  and  nigher ; 

And  the  clang  of  the  anvil,  the  steam-shriek  impas 
sioned 

Seem  calling  from  girder  and  frontlet  of  steel 

Upward  thrown, 

With  the  square-chiseled  blocks, 

As  they  build  ever  higher  and  higher, 

And  then,  for  firm  planting  thy  heel, 

They  delve  ever  deeper  to  heart  of  the  rocks. 

Deep  in  thy  vitals  the  dynamos  whirring 
Are  feeding  thy  nerves  that  are  wires, 
Thy  tunnels,  thy  veins, 
Stretch  out  as  the  human  tide  swerves,, 


196  MANHATTAN:   AN  ODE. 

And  thy  hidden  fires 

With  the  breath  of  thy  bosom  stirring, 

Make  life  in  the  dark  for  thy  lightning  trains. 

And  out  of  it  all  a  new  beauty  arising, 

The  beauty  of  force, 

Winning  a  triumph  beyond  thy  devising, 

Height-mad  and  power-glad 

Pinnacled,  domed,  crenelated, 

Masonry  clambering  course  upon  course 

To  a  glory  of  skyline  serrated, 

Lofty  and  meet 

For  the  worship  of  all  the  waves  laving  thy  feet. 

Mighty,  ay  mighty  Manhattan, 

Grown,  while  Time  counted  but  three  arrow  flights, 

From  bare  strand  and  woodland  and  slow  rising 

knoll— 

A  handful  of  red  men  encamped  on  thy  heights — 
To  the  city  of  millions : 
Of  millions  too  ever  the  goal, 
City  whose  riches  are  billions, 
Whose  might  never  fails, 
Whom  the  nations  from  far  off  salute, 
And  the  voice  of  a  continent  hails 
On  thy  festival  day!    _^ 

.-• 

While  the  cries  of  the  multitude  roll 

In  praise  of  thy  marble-hewn  body  majestic, 

Sing  to  me,  queen,  of  thy  soul. 


MANHATTAN:   AN  ODE.  197 

Sing  of  thy  spirit,  thy  mind. 

Remembering  then, 

The  kernel  and  not  the  rind, 

The  heat  not  the  fires. 

We  shall  not  judge  thee  by  thy  tallest  spires, 

But  by  the  stature  of  thy  men; 

Not  thy  great  wealth  of  bales  and  casks  and  gold, 

Nor  mounting  scales  of  what  thou'st  bought  or  sold 

Shall  here  suffice, 

But  riches  thine  in  virtues  beyond  price: 

Not  all  thy  beauteous  daughters  costly  gowned, 

But  of  thy  women  chastely  wived  and  crowned ; 

Not  all  thy  gold  in  public  service  spent, 

But  test  of  equal,  honest  government; 

Not  creeds  or  churches,  tabernacles,  shrines, 

But  faith  that  lives  and  love  that  shines; 

Not  courts  and  Judges  multiplied, 

But  Justice  throned  and  glorified ; 

Thy  reasons  clear  before  the  world  avowed, 

Not  voice  of  easy  conscience  of  the  crowd; 

Not  by  thy  thousand  colleges  and  schools, 

But  culture  greater  than  their  sums  and  rules ; 

Not  by  thy  topmost  reach  of  speech  and  song, 

But  by  their  lift  to  light  and  art  that's  long; 

And  from  the  mingling  races  in  thy  blood, 

The  wane  of  evil  and  the  growth  of  good ; 

Not  the  high-seated  but  the  undertrod; 

The  brother-love  of  man  for  man, 

Ideals  not  ambitions  in  the  van; 

Not  thy  lip-worship  but  the  immanence  of  God. 


198  MANHATTAN:   AN  ODE. 

But  we  who'd  mete  thy  steps  upon  the  heights, 

And  thy  soul-message  ask 

Know  well  the  battles  that  thy  day's  work  brought, 

No  Greek  Atlantis  art  thou,  Plato's  thought 

Made  sudden  real: 

No  fair  Utopia  thou  of  mounts  ideal, 

Eased  of  thy  burden  and  thy  task, 

With  long  surmountings  in  the  darkness  fraught. 

Swift  thy  foundations  grew,  but  nights  of  tears 
And  days  of  dark  foreboding  marked  thy  years. 
Here  freedom  battled  with  the  tyrant's  might, 
Here  Washington — Immortal  One — made  fight. 
Here  swung  the  prison  ships,  and  here  the  jail 
Whose  gallows  freed  the  soul  of  Nathan  Hale. 

The  orange  flag  of  Holland  flew 

Above  thee  for  a  space. 
Then  England's  red  for  decades  few 

Flushed  crimson  in  thy  face, 
Until  our  arms  set  over  thee 

The  flag  none  may  displace; 
That  waving  free  shall  cover  thee 

While  lasts  the  human  race — 
The  flag  that  to  the  breeze  we  threw 

When  skies  of  hope  were  bare, 
Its  red  our  blood,  the  sky  its  blue, 

Its  stars  our  watchlights  there. 

Full  oft  the  ocean  harvests  at  thy  doors 
Sheet  sodden  grain  upon  thy  threshing  floors, 


MANHATTAN:   AN  ODE.  199 

The  sound,  sweet  ears  with  wild  tares  reached  thee 

mixed, 

Long-fixed  beliefs  came  hitherward  unfixed. 
Long-crushed  desires  that  freedom  bids  to  bloom, 
The  yoke  thrown  off,  for  lawlessness  made  room. 
How  could  it  other  ?    Shorn  of  lords  and  guides 
They  pressed  atow'rd  thee  over  westering  tides. 
From  lands  of  Czars  and  Princes  still  they  come, 
Some  young  and  lusty,  open-browed,  and  some 
Oppression-stunted,  famine-driven,  sad. 
All  praying  thee  for  welcome  fair  and  glad — 
A  niche,  a  shelter,  honest  toil  and  home, 
And  these  thou  givest,  Queen  beside  the  foam. 

And  stout  their  grateful  millions  stand  on  guard, 
Their  brain  and  muscle  working  thee  reward — 
The  solid  Dutch,  the  level  English  strain, 
The  gifted  French,  our  allies  tried  and  true, 
The  German  staunch,  the  Kelt  of  Ireland  bold, 
Italian  fire  and  Spanish  pride ;  the  Jew 
Keen-witted,  dragging  here  no  ghetto  chain ; 
Each  giving  thee  their  lore,  their  art  of  old  ; 
Each  fired  by  thee  with  hopes  and  raptures  new. 

And  Queen,  thy  women  exquisite, 

Thy  clear-eyed  maids,  thy  mothers  pure — 

Pledge  of  thy  greatness  sweetly  to  endure! 

By  these  I  bless  thee  in  thy  day  of  joy, 

Thy  wide-thrown  halls,  thy  hospitable  board, 

Thy  heart  of  anxious  service,  and  the  rays 

Of  kindliness  within  thy  bosom  stored, 


200  LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT. 

No  evil  shall  thy  graciousness  destroy, 
And  so  I  bid  thee  with  increasing  days 
No  whit  thy  fair  ambitions  to  abate ; 
Fulfill  thy  destiny  of  good  and  great. 

/ 

Hark,  the  message  of  Manhattan's  soul! 

Constant  my  soul  on  the  hard  path  of  duty, 

Striving  to  win  to  the  levels  above, 
Longing  my  soul  in  the  gardens  of  beauty, 

Eager  my  soul  in  the  service  of  love, 
Tender  my  soul  to  the  angels  of  pity, 

Humble  my  soul  to  the  bearers  of  light, 
Fearless  my  soul  at  the  gates  of  the  city, 

Stalwart  my  soul  for  the  ultimate  right. 

Mighty  my  dreams  of  a  city  imperial, 

Radiant,  free  ivith  an  ordered  law, 
Rich,  but  with  mind-gold  beyond  the  material, 

Powerful,  merciful,  just  without  Haw, 
Thrift-strong    and    gentle-voiced,     rippling    with 
laughter, 

Song-filled,  and  thrilled  with  the  triumphs  of  art, 
Poverty  banished,  and  now  and  hereafter, 

Peace  in  my  bosom,  joy  in  my  heart, 


LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT. 

TO  MARY. 


PENTAETERIA. 

Five  happy  years !  yea,  that  is  much  to  say. 

Since  hand  clasped  hand  and  lips  vowed  love  alway. 

Five  years  that  on  the  rosary  of  Time 

Shall  be  as  crystals.    Five  full  years  whose  chime 

Shall  ring  us  back  to  youth  and  joyful  hours, 

Should,  haply,  days  of  silver  hair  be  ours. 


We  caught  the  blessing  of  the  rosy  June. 
The  brooklet's  murmur  and  the  breeze's  tune 
Among  the  trees  came  sweetly  to  our  hearts, 
As  sunlight  to  the  vale  when  night  departs. 
And  summer  stayed  with  us  when  winds  were  chill. 
And  winter  sent  us  once  a  daffodil. 


Our  path  was  not  all  flowers,  but  the  breath 
Of  those  we  culled  will  live  with  us  till  death. 
And  so  once  more,  hand-clasped,  we  raise  our  eyes 
And  pray  the  Gentle  Ruler  of  the  skies 
Again  to  bless  us,  as  we  have  been  blessed, 
With  light  and  peace  and  love — but  love  is  best. 
1878. 


204  LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT. 


A  DECADE  OF  LOVE. 

An  angel  came  down  with  a  golden  lyre, 

And  the  strings  of  the  lyre  were  ten, 
And  the  sound  of  its  notes,  played  one  by  one, 

Trembled  and  intertwined ; 
And  he  passed  away  ere  the  playing  was  done, 

But  the  harmony  dwelt  on  the  wind, 
Like  the  mingling  of  all  the  celestial  choir — 

And  the  echoes  it  waked  were  ten. 


A  spirit  came  bearing  a  chalice  of  tears, 

And  the  sighs  that  he  breathed  were  ten, 
And  the  tears  from  the  chalice  dropped  one  by  one 

On  my  bride's  fair  face  and  mine ; 
But  above  us  was  glowing  Love's  glorious  sun, 

Whose  rays  are  a  joy  divine 
That  shines  serene  through  the  passing  years — 

And  the  drops  that  it  dried  were  ten. 


A  nymph  came  laughing  o'er  fields  of  June, 
And  the  roses  she  bore  were  ten, 

And  they  dropped  from  her  ringers,  one  by  one, 
Kissing  our  brows  as  they  fell, 

While  her  laughter  rang  clear  as  the  streamlets  run, 
Or  the  tones  of  our  marriage  bell, 

Till  our  hearts  beat  time  to  the  blithesome  tune— 
And  the  perfumes  there  breathed  were  ten. 


LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT.  205 

O  decade  of  love  to  my  marvelling  soul ! 

Can  the  years  be  truly  ten 
That  have  flown  like  a  rhapsody,  one  by  one, 

O'er  me  and  my  darling  bride  ? 
Was  it  yesterday  morn  that  her  heart  was  won  ? 

O  years  that  in  moments  glide ! 
Still  rapt  into  ecstacy  may  ye  roll 

Though  time  counts  slowly  ten. 

1883. 


MYRIADEOS. 

[The  Feast  of  Ten  Thousand  Dawns.] 
June  18,  1873.  November  4,  1900. 

When  the  joyous  Greeks  took  measure  of  days 

They  counted  from  dawn  to  dawn — 

As  the  darkness  fled  and  a  rosy  red 

The  glory  of  day  foretold, 

With  Apollo  speeding  his  silver  shafts 

As  he  rose  in  his  car  of  gold. 

And  Greek  be  the  measure  when  Love's  clear  rays 

Illumine  a  heart  that's  true, 

And  the  song  in  our  souls  as  the  harpstrings  thrill 

From  the  joy  of  the  Gods  is  drawn. 

Yea,  ever  the  light  of  old  love  is  new, 

And  its  rays  from  the  rosy  dawn. 

We  count  ten  thousand — the  myriad  roll 
Of  dawns  since  we  twain  were  one, 
Yet  marvel  we  not  that  our  love  endure 
Through  all  delight  and  dole. 


206  LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT. 

As  well  to  vaunt  that  love  held  its  sway 

The  hundred  thousand  heart-beats  of  a  day; 

For  not  by  the  bars  on  the  music  page 

Is  the  ballad  worthy  of  recall — 

The  lifting,  varying  melody  is  all. 

So  not  by  the  hours  'twixt  sun  and  sun, 

But  the  lyric  chords  of  soul  and  soul 

Can  Love's  glad  reign  be  held  secure, 

And  the  crown  of  love  be  won. 

Yet  are  they  dear,  these  dav/ns  of  ours, 

The  bright  and  golden,  the  dark  and  drear, 

The  morns  of  withered  hopes ;  the  dawns  of  flow'rs, 

Morns  that  brake  ominous  of  heavy  fate, 

The  awful  morns  when  Death  was  at  our  gate, 

And  love's  red  lips  grew  white  with  fear. 

Glad  dawns  that  left  us  at  the  eve  to  rue, 

Morns  that  were  prelude  to  fond  dreams  come  true, 

To  days  of  deeds  with  standards  to  advance, 

To  days  beneath  the  raven,  days  beneath  the  dove, 

But,  of  our  myriad,  perchance, 

The  dearest  in  our  beadroll  of  the  morn 

Were  those  when  unto  us  were  born 

The  living  pledges  of  our  love. 

So  look  we  back,  glad-hearted  to  that  dawn 

When  Love  first  filled  our  sky; 

When  matin  chimes  of  silv'ry  trill  were  rung, 

And  roses  bloomed  in  clusters  on  the  lawn 

And  through  the  dales, 

Where  only  random  flow'rs  had  sprung. 

No  misty-bearded  morn  it  was  that  paled  on  high 


LIFE'S  LOVE  KNOT.  207 

And  stole  shamefacedly  adown  the  vales, 
Casting  gray  shadows  on  the  lea. 
But  one  all  sudden  from  the  zenith  flung, 
Flooding  our  souls  with  light  and  minstrelsy. 

Fair  rosy  dawn  that  breaks  but  once  on  life, 

And  takes  us  with  its  morning  song, 

And  with  its  glory  doth  our  spirits  drape ; 

Here  do  we  pledge  you — man  and  wife — 

In  dew  that  shrined  its  sunshine  in  the  grape 

Upon  the  slopes  of  Paradise  remote! 

Ray  upon  ray  you've  shed  on  us,  and  note  on  note 

You've  sung  to  us  from  Heaven  above ! 

Now  from  your  treasure-house  beyond  the  sun 

We'd  borrow  trust,  that,  short  or  long, 

Until  our  day  be  done 

Your  light  be  ours,  first  dawn  of  love! 


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